THE  NOVELS  OF 
FRANK  SWINNERTON 

iiiiimninn  i  in— wi—iimiimiMinimiiiiimiiiMiniiiM ■murium  i»mm»iMHHuilumiui»« 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 
►►ON  THE  STAIRCASE 


SBRARY 

NIVERSITY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE 
FRANK  SWINNERTON 


ON  THE   STAIRCASE 


BY 

FRANK  SWINNERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HAPPY  FAMILY,"  ETC 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1914, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


TO 

PHILIP  LEE  WARNER 

IN  GRATITUDE  AND   AFFECTION 


089 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.    The  Quiet  Room i 

II.    Cissie  Prologises 13 

III.  Imperfect  Sympathies 22 

IV.  Half-Lights 35 

V.    Precipitance 4* 

VI.    Amberley  Ascending 49 

VII.    Amberley's  Friends  are  Indiscreet       ....  58 

VIII.    The  Baffled  Lover I2 

IX.    "If  it  be  thus  to  Dream!" 77 

X.    The  Marriage  in  Train 83 

XI.    Friendship 99 

XII.    Brighton Io6 

XIII.  Hadley  Woods 121 

XIV.  Poetry  at  a  Discount 130 

XV.    A  Great  Deal  of  Conversation 138 

XVI.    The  Promenade  Concert 155 

XVII.    A  New  Phase 164 

XVIII.    A  Piece  of  Cissie's  Mind 178 

XIX.    Poison 185 

XX.    The  Amberleys  Receive 195 

XXI.    A  Walk  at  Night 206 

XXII.    Barbara  Speculates 213 

XXIII.    Heart  to  Heart 222 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXIV.    Two  Cardinal  Facts 232 

XXV.    Amberley  is  Defeated 241 

XXVI.    Afterwards 248 

XXVII.    On  the  Staircase 254 

XXVIII.    The  Analyst 262 

XXIX.    Reaction 272 

XXX.    Cissie 277 

XXXI.    Flight 284 

XXXII.    Amberley  Takes  Charge 292 

XXXIII.  Clarification 3°3 

XXXIV.  Dreadful  News 3*7 

XXXV.    Bonne  Bouche 323 


ON    THE    STAIRCASE 


I 


CHAPTER   I 
THE  QUIET  ROOM 


N  London  the  earliest  evenings  in  autumn  are  romantic 
beyond  any  others.  The  big  electric  lamps  begin  to 
whiz  and  flutter  before  the  afternoon  is  gone,  and  night  is 
upon  the  city  while  the  dusk  is  still  making  eyes  strain  to 
see  what,  a  moment  earlier,  had  been  quite  visible.  And 
while  the  marvel  grows  usual  and  unsurprising  during  the 
weeks  that  follow,  it  seems  at  its  first  coming  almost  as 
fresh,  and  even  as  welcome,  as  the  spring.  That,  of  course, 
is  to  the  young  and  self-conscious,  who  recognise  change 
without  misgiving.  To  the  middle-aged  in  spirit  the  early 
autumn  is  as  much  a  cause  for  melancholy  foreboding  as  any 
other  time  of  progress.  There  are  no  old  people  nowadays. 
There  are  the  young,  to  whom  everything  is  capable  of  pro- 
viding matter  of  interest,  and  there  are  the  middle-aged, 
whose  spirits  are  dulled.  This  book  is  mostly  about  young 
people. 

Barbara  Gretton,  leaving  the  typewriting  office  which 
gave  her  employment,  walked  quickly  up  Arundel  Street 
and  lost  her  identity.  She  became  one  of  the  millions  of 
people  who  push  and  press  like  conflicting  shoals  of  fish 
along  the  Strand  every  evening.  The  Strand  clocks  were 
striking  six;  the  thicker,  duller  clock  at  the  Law  Courts 


2  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

had  already  sounded  in  petty  emulation  of  Big  Ben.  Every- 
thing was  in  motion,  ever-progressing,  ever-renewed.  Those 
who  passed  had  degenerated  into  a  crowd,  and  crowds  cease 
instantly  to  be  composed  of  individuals.  They  are  crowds 
— with  a  new  and  abnormal  psychology,  yet  with  amazingly 
steadfast  individual  aims.  Barbara  felt  at  home  in  crowds, 
because  she  was  so  sure  of  her  own  individuality.  That 
was  because  she  had  a  very  powerful  sense  of  personal 
direction.  She  never  had  lost  her  head ;  it  was  impossible 
to  imagine  that  she  would  ever  lose  it.  She  had  worked 
too  long  in  offices  to  feel  mistrustful  of  herself.  She  tingled 
with  the  consciousness  that  she  was  Barbara  Gretton.  So 
strong  was  her  sense  of  the  fact  that  she  never  thought  it 
likely  that  she  would  be  anything  or  anybody  else.  She  was 
hard,  courageous,  effective.  If  she  had  been  in  a  minor 
crowd  she  would  have  been  recognisable  as  an  individual. 
Weedy  young  men  would  have  seen  her,  tall,  unapproach- 
able, and  would  in  a  glance  have  taken  notice  of  her 
assured  carriage,  and  her  eager,  but  controlled,  aspect. 
She  was  tall,  very  dark,  unusually  erect;  and  her  mouth 
was  significantly  closed  in  resolution.  Not  one  of  the 
weedy  young  men  would  have  supposed  it  conceivable  that 
he  could  speak  to  her.  Just  as  some  girls  carry  themselves 
with  an  air  of  irresolution  which  invites  impertinence,  Bar- 
bara passed  like  an  athlete  in  good  training,  completely  self- 
reliant.  She  dressed  plainly,  in  dark  coat  and  skirt;  and  a 
small  scarlet  trimming  was  the  only  adornment  of  her  se- 
vere hat.  But  she  was  not  manly;  her  stride  was  not 
noticeable,  for  she  had  natural  grace;  she  was  in  no  sense 
aggressive.  That  was  why,  to  observing  eyes,  she  lost  indi- 
viduality in  a  crowd,  and  yet  remained,  to  perceptive  vision, 
so  unquestionably  Barbara  Gretton. 

Far  up  the  Strand  to  the  westward  the  traffic  roared, 
and  dark  figures  melted  into  the  evening  grey;  to  the  east, 
down  Fleet  Street,  a  similar  swarm  of  people  and  of  ve- 
hicles rushed  steadily  along,  bent  on  some  desperate  errand, 
a  mass  of  moving  particles,  not  at  all  to  be  distinguished 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  3 

one  from  the  other,  even  by  their  patrons  and  familiars. 
The  two  fine  Strand  churches  stood  up  pale  and  splendid 
against  the  sky;  a  roaring  filled  the  ears,  as  of  an  endless 
wave,  for  ever  breaking  fiercely  upon  stubborn  shores. 
Barbara  was  unconscious  of  her  own  movements ;  she  went 
forward  resolutely,  bathed  in  the  noise  and  the  gleaming 
lights  and  the  dull  hustle  of  passengers.  She  only  knew 
how  splendid  it  was  to  be  in  the  midst  of  life. 


II 

From  Aldwich,  Barbara  turned  into  the  wide  and  as 
yet  unfinished  Kingsway,  one  of  the  few  noble  thorough- 
fares of  London.  Here  the  crowds  were  less  noticeably 
congested,  though  they  still  swept  endlessly  towards  the 
Strand  as  tributaries  to  the  main  stream  passing  east  and 
west.  She  could  feel  more  free,  more  able  to  give  attention 
to  those  who  passed ;  and  she  could  hear  below  her  the  dull 
rumble  of  the  underground  tramcars  (known  as  rabbit- 
trams  from  their  habit  of  plunging  beneath  the  roadway  a 
little  farther  on).  To  the  right,  through  quiet  Lincoln's 
Inn,  through  a  narrow  court,  and  across  Holborn,  and 
through  another  passage,  and  then  Barbara  was  fairly  in 
sight  of  her  home.  For  she  lived,  with  her  mother  and 
father  and  two  brothers,  at  the  very  top  of  one  of  the  tall 
houses  in  Great  James  Street.  Here,  as  they  rushed  up 
and  down  Theobald's  Road,  the  tramcars  made  a  great 
clangour,  and  heavy  carts  from  the  northeast  jolted  over 
the  rough  stones.  As  the  noise  of  the  Strand  was  to  the 
quiet  of  her  office,  so  was  Theobald's  Road  more  noisy  than 
either;  dull,  greasy,  blatant — a  dinning  crowd  of  motor- 
omnibuses  and  carts  and  trams.  From  the  door  of  that 
building  in  which  her  own  home  seemed  withdrawn  from 
clamour  she  could  still  hear  the  frightful  sounds  she  had 
left.  Yet  once  Barbara  had  passed  the  door,  everything 
became  muffled.    Here  the  gas  above  the  door  might  flicker, 


4  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

and  heavy  doors  within  the  building  might  slam,  and  keys 
might  chinkle;  but  only  a  distant  grinding  sound  betrayed 
the  nearness  of  traffic,  and  the  tram-gongs  were  nearly  lost 
to  hearing.  She  entered  the  mild  silence.  Mr.  Berry,  the 
housekeeper's  husband,  was  having  kippers  for  tea. 

Barbara  passed  the  door  of  Vokes  &  Vokes,  and  the 
offices  were  still.  She  mounted  the  staircase  to  the  first 
floor,  where  were  the  offices  of  Robinson,  Seares,  &  Turn- 
pike. They  too  seemed  closed  until  she  was  abreast  of  the 
door,  when  suddenly  it  opened,  and  a  tall  young  man  strug- 
gled a  key  into  the  lock,  standing  with  his  back  turned, 
locking  the  door.  She  had  often  seen  him  before — a  tall, 
pale,  serious  young  man  in  shabby  clothes.  She  wondered 
what  he  did  all  day  in  that  office,  sitting  studiously  at  a 
desk  and  working  with  grim  unwillingness.  His  name, 
she  had  heard  from  Mr.  Amberley  (of  Vokes's),  was  Val- 
ancourt.  Mr.  Amberley  had  grimaced,  shaking  his  comical 
head.  "Velancourt,"  he  had  said.  "Accent  on  the  second 
syllable,  and  the  't'  ellided."  Barbara  took  no  notice  of 
Mr.  Velancourt  as  he  stood  on  the  landing,  but  stepped 
gently  on.  Here  she  reached  the  next  floor,  and  saw  the 
two  doors  of  Mr.  Jeffery's  flat,  very  dull,  and  miserably 
painted,  with  his  name  in  squat  yellow  print  above  the 
letter-box. 

Oh,  how  glad  she  would  be  to  reach  her  own  home! 
Here  was  the  door!  Once  it  was  open,  she  was  at  home 
.  .  .  the  stair-carpet,  the  little  table  on  the  landing,  with 
her  mother's  queer-looking  plant  (several  years  old,  and 
suggestive  of  an  indiscreet  youth),  and  the  fine  panelled 
walls.  A  beautiful  "homey"  scent  was  in  the  air,  not  the 
smell  of  cooking,  or  of  mackintoshes,  but  the  iudescribable 
flavour  that  she  always  remembered  as  she  thought  of  home. 
And  here  it  lay — that  home  of  hers — at  the  top  of  the 
dimly-lighted  staircase,  warm,  cordial,  inviting. 

She  closed  the  door  so  recently  opened :  she  was  now 
cut  off  from  all  the  other  dwellers  on  the  staircase,  at  last 
indisputably  Barbara  Gretton,  shut  away  from  all  the  soul- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  5 

engrossing  business  interests  of  those  who  laboured  in  this 
building.  She  could  hear  Mr.  Velancourt  running  down 
the  stairs.  ...  He  was  going  to  his  home,  she  thought. 
That  was  curious :  she  did  not  know  whether  he  was  mar- 
ried, or  if  he  lived  with  his  mother,  or  if  he  had  some 
miserable  room  in  a  distant  suburb,  where  he  struggled 
eternally  with  a  mercenary  landlady.  She  knew  all  about 
Mr.  Jeffery,  who  lived  just  below,  and  she  knew  all  about 
Mr.  Amberley  and  his  curious  family.  But  she  strangely 
knew  nothing  about  Mr.  Velancourt.  Even  Mr.  Amberley 
knew  nothing  about  him,  although  Mr.  Amberley  knew 
sometimes  almost  too  much  about  people  he  met.  He 
only  grimaced  and  shook  his  head  over  Mr.  Velancourt.  Oh 
well,  one  couldn't  know  everybody  whom  one  met  on  the 
stairs :  that  would  be  too  much  of  a  good  thing.  It  was 
quite  enough  to  know  Mr.  Amberley  and  Mr.  Jeffery,  who 
were  so  surprising  as  to  be  a  host  in  themselves. 

"Here  I  am,  mudder,"  Barbara  said,  entering  the  sit- 
ting-room. 

"And  about  time!"  young  Harry  bellowed,  at  the  same 
moment  dropping  his  feet  from  the  chair  on  which  they 
had  been  resting.  "Why,  my  good  girl,  I'm  perfectly 
beastly  starving,  like  a  winter  spadger!" 


Ill 

Young  Harry  was  a  freckled,  jolly  boy  of  fourteen,  a 
day-scholar  at  a  distant  school.  He  had  no  apparent  re- 
spect for  his  sister,  though  he  secretly  feared  her,  as  men 
and  boys  always  do  fear  a  woman  of  any  character.  He 
could  bluster  now;  but  if  Barbara  had  shown  the  least 
resentment,  young  Harry  would  have  responded  with  a 
sheepishness  as  uncomfortable  to  everybody  else  as  it  was 
to  himself,  and  a  high  embarrassed  colour.  Fortunately 
Barbara,  disappearing  to  remove  her  hat  and  coat,  took  no 
notice  of  her  brother.     He  lorded  it  in  front  of  the  fire, 


6  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

seeing  how  far  apart  he  could  stretch  his  feet  without 
losing  his  balance.  Barbara,  re-entering  the  room  impetu- 
ously, so  startled  Harry  that  he  pitched  forward,  and  was 
very  red  when  he  succeeded  in  standing  firm  once  more. 

"What  are  you  doing !"  she  cried. 

"Merely,  good  creature,"  he  made  answer,  trying  to 
cover  his  chagrin,  "merely  illustrating  the  peculiar  resili- 
ence of  the  human  ligaments." 

"As  if  you  knew  anything  about  it!"  Barbara  was 
at  once  sisterly  and  crushing.  She  did  not  like  boys  much, 
and  loved  Harry  so  amusedly  that  she  had  almost  always 
to  pretend  to  be  very  much  older  than  he  was,  in  order  to 
maintain  her  dignity.  But  Harry  did  not  know  this.  He 
would  rather  confess  a  scrape  to  his  mother  than  to  Bar- 
bara. Still,  she  wasn't  a  bad  old  sort.  Conceited  and  all 
that  .  .  .  these  women  who  mixed  with  affairs  always  were 
insufferably  conceited.  It  was  because  they  were  so  new 
to  it.  Of  course  they  didn't  know  as  much  as  the  men,  but 
men  never  swanked,  so  the  women  thought  themselves  .  .  . 
it  was  appalling!  They  thought  they  had  you  all  the  way 
round — you  were  polite,  couldn't  very  well  swear  at  them 
or  kick  them,  yet  they  thought  you  weak  for  not  doing  it, 
and  took  every  inch  as  a  triumph  for  their  sex.  Not  as  a 
courteous  gift,  mind  you! 

"Women!"  ejaculated  Harry. 

"Oh,  mother,  do  give  him  his  food!"  begged  Barbara. 
"He's  going  to  philosophise !" 

"Not  worth  it!"  cried  young  Harry.  Barbara  looked 
at  him,  and  his  colour  rose.  He  shuffled  his  feet.  "You're 
clever  enough  to  know  it  all  beforehand,"  he  went  on, 
mingling  compliment  with  irony,  and  not  being  quite  sure 
what  he  meant.    "But  I  do  think  it's  all  ROT !" 

"I'm  sure  we  agree  on  that,"  Barbara  said,  quietly. 
They  exchanged  a  glance  of  antagonism,  cool  and  smiling 
on  one  side,  angry  on  the  other. 

"Devil!"  muttered  young  Harry.  Barbara  chose  not 
to  hear.    She  drew  her  chair  up  to  the  table  as  Mrs.  Gret- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  7 

ton  appeared  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  atmosphere  was 
cleared  in  a  trice.  Mrs.  Gretton,  though  considered  by 
most  people  rather  a  silly  woman,  who  never  had  her  wits 
at  hand,  was  so  cheerful  and  inoffensive  that  everybody 
loved  her.  Under  her  eye  quarrels  dissolved — not  because 
she  had  any  stern  sense  of  justice,  or  because  she  had  any 
power  to  discuss  grievances ;  but  simply  because  she  was  so 
smilingly  curious  that  explanations  were  bound  to  follow. 
And  nobody  likes  to  be  made  foolish  by  the  explanation 
of  a  quarrel.  Mrs.  Gretton  was  a  thin  little  woman  with  a 
round  face  and  clear  blue  eyes  like  those  of  a  child,  "with- 
out a  stain."  She  was  a  famous  cook,  and  the  devoted 
servant  of  her  family,  who  became  in  their  turn  devoted 
servants  to  herself  and  to  nobody  else.  She  carried  a  dish, 
which  both  Barbara  and  Harry  hastened  to  take  from  her. 
They  both  fell  upon  small  tasks — such  as  cutting  the  bread 
and  bringing  other  dishes  into  the  room — and  were  so  en- 
gaged that  they  did  not  notice  the  entrance  of  the  rest  of 
the  family. 

Mr.  Gretton  and  his  elder  son  Ernest  therefore  were 
within  the  range  of  the  lamplight  before  they  became  con- 
spicuous. They  were  two  tall  men,  the  one  of  fifty-five,  the 
other  thirty  years  younger;  and  Mr.  Gretton  was  bearded, 
while  Ernest  looked  less  than  his  age.  He  almost  looked 
less  than  Barbara,  who  was  two  years  his  junior.  He  was 
a  clerk  in  a  big  firm  of  city  stationers,  and  his  interests 
embraced  the  major  arts  and  some  of  the  minor  ones. 
Although  he  was  tall,  Ernest  lacked  that  grand  air  of  as- 
surance which  provokes  resentment  and  awe,  so  that  in 
spite  of  his  indubitable  intelligence  he  did  not  succeed  in 
impressing  his  superiors.  His  carriage  was  so  easy  and  so 
quiet  that  he  earned  respect  without  also  obtaining  def- 
erence ;  and  his  power  of  self-effacement,  while  it  seemed 
to  Mrs.  Gretton  to  make  him  ever  more  lovable,  gave  an 
impression  to  strangers  that  he  had  not  a  very  strong 
character.  A  good  deal  of  this  quietness  and  competence 
he   inherited    from  his   parents,    for  both   Mr.   and   Mrs. 


8  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Gretton  had  lived  obscurely  in  comfort  all  their  lives,  with- 
out desiring  personal  dignities,  and  without  cherishing  am- 
bitions. It  was  left  to  their  younger  children — Barbara 
and  Harry — to  develop  strange  perceptions  of  their  own 
importance;  and  Barbara  and  Harry  were  in  the  habit  of 
having  their  own  way.  When  these  two  conflicted,  one 
with  the  other,  Barbara's  eventual  triumph  was  assured. 
The  entire  family  was  thus  very  happy,  without  quite 
knowing  why,  for  the  two  younger  members  did  not  realise 
that  their  own  good  qualities  were  slowly  maturing  in  the 
quietness  of  the  family  circle.  Their  elders — including 
Ernest — were  ready  to  stand  aside  in  loyalty;  but  there  is 
no  influence  more  potent  than  unselfishness  when  it  is 
voiceless  and  all-pervading. 

They  all  sat  round  the  table  and  looked  at  each  other; 
and  Mr.  Gretton  rubbed  his  hands  and  slyly  kicked  young 
Harry  on  the  ankle. 

"I  say,  Dad!"  expostulated  Harry.  Mr.  Gretton's  jovi- 
ality was  proof  against  even  that  outcry.  He  turned  to 
Barbara. 

"All  right  to-day,  Babs?"  he  asked.  And  then:  "No 
letters  for  me?" 

"Fancy  a  man  demanding  letters  before  his  food !" 
cried  Mrs.  Gretton,  in  her  silly  way. 

"Dad's  a  litrateur!"  said  Harry,  ashamed  of  himself 
before  he  had  spoken.  They  passed  him  over  in  kind 
silence.    Then  Ernest  sprang  a  mine. 

"Met  that  chap  what's-his-name  along  the  road." 

"How  jolly!"  Barbara  said. 

"If  you'd  wait!  .  .  .  Vavaseur — what  is  his  name? 
Harry:  you  know,  don't  you?" 

"I  suppose  you  mean,"  Harry  said,  slowly,  so  as  to 
be  the  more  crushing,  "I  suppose  you  mean  the  man  who 
doesn't  interest  us  any  more  than  .  .  .  any  more  than " 

"Get  along  with  it !" 

"Why  don't  you  wait,  my  boy!     I  suppose  you  mean," 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  9 

stammered  Harry,  having  forgotten  the  name  in  his  own 
coil  of  tortuosity,  "er  .  .  .  Mellincourt!" 

"What  rubbish!  Velancourt,  of  course.  Yes,  Velan- 
court !" 

"Is  that  all!"  Barbara  cried.  "What  a  fuss  about 
nothing!  I  saw  him  too.  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  to 
shout  about  it." 

"Oh,  she's  proud!"  said  Mr.  Gretton,  slyly.  "Proud, 
is  my  daughter  Barbara!"  Mrs.  Gretton  began  to  laugh 
very  softly,  about  nothing. 

"Mother!  you  encourage  him!" 

"To  proceed,"  went  on  Ernest,  in  his  patient,  cool 
voice;  "to-day's  Thursday,  and  we  shall  have  the  usual 
gang  of  people  here.  I  was  going  to  say — when  Barbara 
so  politely  broke  in — that  I  want  to  discover  what  the 
young  man  mutters  about  while  he's  walking  along.  I 
thought  we  might  get  him  up  here  one  Thursday.  Amber- 
ley  says  he's  decent,  but  a  sort  of  Wandering  Jew." 

"Perhaps  he  hasn't  got  a  mother,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Gretton.    She  was  very  shy,  for  fear  of  the  ensuing  storm. 

"Mother!"  in  protest  from  Barbara. 

"That,"  pursued  Ernest,  deliberately,  "you  must  find 
out  for  yourself.  My  idea  was  that  Amberley  might  agree 
to  bring  him."  The  thought  was  horrible  to  Barbara,  who 
was  emphatic  in  her  protest. 

"My  dear  boy!  Do  you  really  think  Mr.  Amberley 's 
introduction  a  testimonial?  He's  just  a  common  bore, 
himself!" 

"Only  because  he's  amused  at  you !"  shouted  Harry. 
"He's  a  man!" 

Barbara  looked  sharply  across  at  him,  animation  giv- 
ing place  in  her  expression  to  disdain. 

"It's  better  to  be  a  gentleman,  Harry,"  she  remarked, 
a  condescending  elder  sister  in  a  moment. 

"Oh,  bother !"    Harry  reddened  with  chagrin. 

Ernest  smiled  in  silence,  for  he  was  an  unusually  silent 
young    man.      All    his    movements,    over-punctilious,    and 


io  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

rather  characteristically  distinct,  were  marked  by  silence 
and  efficiency.  His  tones  were  modulated  and  persuasive, 
and  his  attitude  to  the  world  one  of  detachment  allied  with 
some  melancholy,  so  that  Harry  rarely  lost  respect  for  him. 
Ernest  had  once  been  passionately  in  love  with  a  girl  who 
could  not  meet  a  man  without  flirtation,  and  who  was  no 
fonder  of  him  than  of  the  others.  So  he  had  been  sobered, 
without  affectation,  and  although  he  was  sentimental,  was 
yet  rather  strictly  self-controlled.  He  had  devoted  himself 
to  the  difficult  study  of  men,  as  represented  by  his  care- 
fully-chosen, slightly  abnormal  friends.  These  friends,  with 
some  others  known  to  the  family  generally,  were  the  nu- 
cleus of  the  Thursday  evening  meetings  which  made  Mrs. 
Gretton  a  second,  and  perhaps  rather  bourgeoise,  Madame 
Recamier,  who  dispensed  coffee  and  cakes  and  fruits  after 
their  talk  and  music. 

"I  think  it's  very  interesting  to  know  about  people's 
mothers,"  Mrs.  Gretton  said,  idly  fingering  her  napkin. 
"But  then  nobody  minds  what  I  think."  Which  is  one  of 
those  truths  which  people  find  so  difficult  to  accept  simply. 

"You've  made  mothers  your  particular  study,  dear," 
Mr.  Gretton  put  in,  with-  a  smile. 

"It's  curious  how  mothers  are  out  of  fashion."  The 
remark  came  surprisingly  from  Harry.  "I  should  never 
know  the  chaps  had  them,  if  I  didn't  guess." 

"It  certainly  seems  rather  obvious,"  said  Barbara,  drily. 

"Well,  I  suppose  nobody  minds  the  young  man  com- 
ing?" pressed  Ernest.    "Any  'nays'?" 

So  it  was  that  Ernest  made  their  friends  for  them, 
and  when  they  grew  familiar  with  the  friends  they  forgot 
all  about  his  role  of  entrepreneur. 

In  the  streets  outside  men  and  women  and  children 
were  all  passing,  strangers  in  a  strange  wonderful  world 
of  prosaic  things ;  and  here  within  the  silent  room  in  the 
silent  house,  shut  out  from  all  distant  noises,  even  from 
the  knowledge  of  Mr.  Berry's  tea,  the  Grettons  sat  remote 
in  their  own  intensely  interesting  world.    The  large  dining- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  n 

table  shone  and  glistened  with  white  linen  and  bright 
silver;  the  red  lamp-shade  cast  a  rich  darkness  over  the 
room;  all  the  faces  were  in  shadow.  At  one  end  of  the 
table  Mr.  Gretton  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  hands  loosely 
touching  his  fruit  knife  and  fork.  At  the  foot  of  the  table 
Mrs.  Gretton  sat  almost  primly  erect,  grey-haired  and  slim, 
but  with  her  eyes  bright  and  her  cheeks  smooth  and  fresh- 
coloured.  Ernest  and  Harry  shared  a  side  between  them, 
Harry  rough-skinned  and  restless,  as  though  his  proper 
place  was  the  football  field;  Ernest  rather  pale  and  quiet, 
with  a  small  moustache,  and  eyes  slow  and  serious,  as  his 
father's  were.  .  .  .  Each  Gretton  was  thinking  Gretton 
thoughts,  unconscious  of  a  life  beyond  their  own  intelli- 
gent horizons.  Only  Ernest  was  crumbling  his  bread, 
eagerly. 

"You  sometimes  don't  realise  how  nice  it  is  to  be  so 
cosy!"  Mrs.  Gretton  murmured  to  Barbara.  They  looked 
at  her  indulgently,  mildly  provoked.  Of  course  it  was  cosy ! 
Mother  sometimes  said  quite  silly  things,  hardly  worth 
saying  at  all,  or  thinking.  She  was  a  dear  good  old  mother 
— rather  silly,  but  wonderfully  mother  to  them  all.  They 
all  had  the — quite  secret — idea  that  she  was  the  nicest 
mother  in  the  world.  Father,  of  course,  was  father.  About 
the  younger  ones,  Barbara,  in  soliloquy,  had  more  doubts. 
Mrs.  Gretton,  she  realised,  thought  them  all  astonishing, 
and  their  prospects  really  matter  for  excitement.  But  that 
was  obviously  the  vanity  of  narrow  interests.  Barbara  felt 
beyond  all  that,  the  one  unfettered  spirit.  .  .  .  She  had 
distinct  awareness  that  her  brothers  were  not  clever,  or 
remarkable.  They  were  her  brothers,  curiously  recurrent, 
as  it  were,  at  meal-times,  and  only  a  little  irritating.  Bar- 
bara felt  conscious  of  certain  astonishing  qualities  in  her- 
self— depths  unsounded,  and  taken  for  granted.  In  the 
faint  crimson  shadow  she  looked  at  her  father,  at  Ernest 
and  young  Harry,  at  her  mother.  What  on  earth  had  made 
her  mother  say  that  about  cosiness?  Of  course  it  was  cosy ! 
At  the  end  of  a  long  day  one  needed  a  cosy  home.    Other 


12  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

people — oh,  but  what  was  the  use  of  rubbish  of  that  sort! 
She  knew  she  would  be  irritated  presently.  .  .  .  Mother 
often  made  her  irritated  by  some  such  softness.  It  was  as 
though  mother  had  no  sense  of  Barbara.  Oh,  but  it  was 
fine  to  be  Barbara  Gretton! 


CHAPTER   II 

CISSIE  PROLOGISES 

I 

FOR  two  centuries  the  Velancourt  family  had  been 
engaged  in  the  Wiltshire  cloth  industry,  and  Adrian 
Velancourt  was  born  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little 
towns  in  England — Bradford-on-Avon.  Here,  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  quiet  dreaming  beauty,  he  stayed  only  long 
enough  to  catch  the  first  sense  of  undying  impressions; 
for  failure  made  Charles  Velancourt  remove  first  to  Trow- 
bridge and  then  to  Salisbury.  Finally,  on  the  death  of  his 
wife,  when  nothing  but  starvation  showed  itself  as  a  pos- 
sibility, Charles  brought  his  little  boy  to  London,  and  they 
lodged  obscurely  in  Camden  Town  until  Adrian  was  fif- 
teen. At  that  time  Charles  Velancourt,  consumed  with  a 
sense  of  chagrined  personal  failure,  ceased  to  struggle 
longer.  He  died  quietly  in  his  chair  while  Adrian  was 
reading  a  book  by  the  aid  of  the  gas-lamp  which  shone 
outside  the  window.  Thus  it  was  that  the  boy  had  to  make 
his  own  living  without  any  preparation ;  and  his  stumbling 
success  in  obtaining  and  precariously  keeping  various  situa- 
tions ended  after  five  years  in  a  backwater  so  apparently 
stagnant  as  to  suggest  a  permanency.  This  backwater  was 
the  office  of  a  moribund  firm  of  solicitors  named  Robinson, 
Seares,  &  Turnpike.  Seares  was  the  only  remaining  part- 
ner, and  although  the  business  dragged  from  one  year  to 
another  it  was  occupied  chiefly  in  conveyancing,  the  execu- 
tion of  ancient  wills,  and  the  arrangement  of  mortgages — 
routine  work  little  likely  to  arouse  self-respect  in  one  who 

13 


14  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

was  sunk  in  dreams  of  quiet  delights.  Mr.  Seares  was 
possessed  of  a  small  property,  which  kept  him  pleasantly 
in  the  Surrey  hills ;  and  as  he  was  an  elderly  man  without 
family  he  was  content  to  allow  his  affairs  to  dwindle  into 
a  state  of  slow  consumption. 

From  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  six  o'clock  at 
night  Velancourt  sat  at  his  desk,  monotonously  working. 
The  only  person  in  the  world  who  was  at  all  interested 
in  him  was  the  peculiar  Mr.  Amberley,  of  Vokes's;  and 
Mr.  Amberley  was  so  abrupt  in  manner  that  Velancourt 
was  forced  further  and  further  into  loneliness  and  reserve, 
and  dread  of  his  friend's  company  and  quick  tongue.  Vel- 
ancourt could  not  understand  that  Amberley  meant  well ; 
he  shrank  from  any  new  experience ;  his  attitude  was  that 
of  a  premature  spinster,  self-conscious,  self -engrossed,  com- 
pletely amateurish  in  his  relation  to  the  world.  Yet  his 
heart  was  pure  and  eager,  and  his  physical  beauty — disclos- 
ing in  its  delicacy  the  essential  beauty  of  his  nature — was 
such  as  to  make  young  women,  unattended,  cast  sidelong 
eyes  of  marvel  as  they  passed  him.  One  or  two  of  these, 
whom  he  met  frequently  on  his  way  to  or  from  the  office, 
raised  their  voices  at  the  encounter  (if  they  were  with 
friends)  ;  but  Velancourt  passed  impervious,  unheeding. 
He  did  not  hear  them,  did  not  see  them,  except  as  inci- 
dental beauties  by  the  way.  Lonely  as  a  cloud,  he  wan- 
dered among  bright  and  engaging  eyes,  that  sometimes 
darkened  at  his  negligence. 


II 

When  he  had  locked  the  door  of  Robinson,  Seares, 
&  Turnpike's  offices,  and  had  run  down  the  stairs  as  we 
have  heard,  Adrian  Velancourt  had  still  to  post  some  let- 
ters, a  task  which  took  him  into  the  narrow,  crowded 
street  known  as  Red  Lion  Street.  The  letters  posted,  he 
was  able  to  make  his  way  by  devious  turnings  into  South- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  15 

ampton  Row,  and  eventually  to  Euston  Road  and  Camden 
Town.  In  all  weathers  he  walked  to  and  from  his  lodgings 
near  Mornington  Crescent,  blind  to  the  ordinary  vision  of 
the  streets.  To  him,  as  to  an  old  poet,  "the  dust  and  stones 
of  the  street  were  as  precious  as  gold :  the  green  trees  when 
he  saw  them  first  transported  and  ravished  him :  their 
sweetness  and  unusual  beauty  made  his  heart  to  leap,  and 
almost  mad  with  ecstasy,  they  were  such  strange  and  won- 
derful things.  .  .  .  And  young  men  glittering  and  spark- 
ling angels,  and  maids  strange  seraphic  pieces  of  life  and 
beauty !  Boys  and  girls  tumbling  in  the  street  were  moving 
jewels.  .  .  ."  Each  day,  as  he  passed  the  landmarks  and 
even  the  faces  that  were  well  known  to  him,  it  was  Velan- 
court's  habit  to  see  them  afresh  as  though  for  the  first  time 
— not  as  a  conscious  fancy,  which  some  indulge,  but  because 
he  never  grew  accustomed  to  anything  or  found  it  stale. 

So  it  was  that  Velancourt  passed  into  the  grimy  ways 
north  of  Euston  Road.  He  had  two  small  rooms  in  a  dingy 
house  that  stood  mutely  begging  for  renovation.  It  was 
joined  to  other  houses,  which  ran  in  one  long  level  sweep 
from  one  end  of  the  road  to  the  other.  They  were  base- 
ment-houses, made  of  bricks  the  colour  of  convict-uniforms, 
and  in  each  case  the  front  door  was  sunk  into  the  house  so 
as  to  allow  of  a  small,  cramped  standing-place  on  the  top 
step.  In  the  evening,  at  this  time,  a  hundred  people  were 
practising  on  pianos  in  the  front  ground-floor  rooms.  The 
children  who  during  the  day  bowled  hoops  along  the  pave- 
ments were  all  indoors.  The  gas-lamps  were  lighted,  and 
shining  like  earthly  stars.  Above,  in  the  grey  evening  sky, 
the  earliest  stars  were  winking  through  the  darkness,  just  as 
though  they  had  been  lighted  with  the  same  effort  as  the 
fluttering  electric  arcs  in  the  main  road.  Some  pieces  of 
paper,  and  the  dropped  scraps  of  green  stuff  from  the  carts 
of  itinerant  green-grocers,  were  littered  about  near  the 
gutters.  Velancourt  saw  none  of  it.  The  stars  above  were 
his  companions :  the  houses,  shrouded  in  the  dusk,  were  as 
mysterious  as  wayside  hedges.     It  was  such  a  beautiful 


16  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

world  he  lived  in,  as  quiet  as  poetry,  as  soft  and  impalpable 
as  the  sky.  As  he  walked,  the  stones  rang  clear  and  true ; 
peace  and  beauty  were  about  him,  existing  endlessly  in  a 
thousand  disguises,  to  be  pierced  only  by  those  who  pros- 
trated themselves  before  the  vision  of  their  divine  majesty. 
Velancourt  drew  a  quick  breath.  His  feet,  more  concerned 
than  he  with  temporal  things,  stopped  outside  the  house  in 
which  his  rooms  were.  He  slightly  parted  the  folds  of  his 
dream-cloak,  and  entered  the  house.  A  flickering  gaslight, 
very  low,  showed  him  a  perambulator  standing  in  the  hall, 
where  it  had  been  left  by  Mrs.  Jenkins's  married  daughter. 
He  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  the  first  floor,  and  felt  for 
the  handle  of  his  door.  A  small  fire  was  alight  in  the  grate, 
and  the  Venetian  blinds  were  lowered.  On  the  table,  alight, 
was  a  tall  oil-lamp  of  painted  glass,  with  a  round  globe 
shade,  curiously  patterned  with  a  grained  design.  The 
room  was  warm,  even  close;  and  his  eyes  went  at  once  to 
the  shelves,  where  his  books  stood  shining  in  the  glow  of 
his  enthusiasm.  Very  beautiful  he  thought  them ;  and  in- 
deed they  made  a  brave  show  in  the  barely  furnished  room. 
Sometimes,  when  he  could  do  nothing  else,  he  used  to  sit 
and  look  at  them,  feeling  a  sense  of  their  friendliness,  their 
companionship.  .  .  . 

He  put  his  hat  on  a  side  table,  and  went  over  to  the 
fire,  smoothing  his  hair  without  thinking  of  his  action.  The 
fire  was  so  dead  that  it  might  have  been  made  of  coke  or 
blocks  of  solidified  coal-dust,  but  the  cause  was  to  be  found 
in  the  inferior  coal  for  which  Mrs.  Jenkins  charged  so 
exorbitantly.  Often,  while  he  had  been  sitting  over  it,  the 
fire  had  slowly  expired,  not  from  lack  of  coal,  but  through 
a  failure  in  vital  force.  Like  human  beings,  fires  die  if 
they  are  ignored,  leaving  their  strange  heaped  skeleton,  and 
losing  all  energy.  Velancourt  stooped,  and  added  one  or 
two  small  pieces  of  coal,  watching  how  their  presence 
seemed  to  darken  the  dull  red  ash,  and  how  remarkable  little 
dartings  of  life  showed  among  the  red  and  grey.  He  was 
busy  looking  into  the  fire  when  he  heard  the  door  jolted 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  17 

open,  and,  turning,  saw  that  the  jolting  was  caused  by  his 
landlady's  daughter,  who  carried  a  japanned  metal  tray. 

"Oh,  you  are  warm  in  here!"  she  exclaimed,  at  the 
end  of  her  breath.  She  pushed  up  the  heavy  flounce  of 
hair  at  her  forehead.  "Those  stairs!  Mustn't  look  at  my 
face !" 

Actually,  Velancourt  had  never  done  so  before — at 
least,  he  had  never  looked  at  her  with  any  scrutiny  or 
recognisable  intention.  But  he  very  humanly  responded 
to  such  an  invitation,  and  saw  without  doubt  that  Cissie 
had  been  suffering  from  toothache,  and  that  her  face,  for 
the  first  time  revealed  to  him,  was  badly  swollen.  Other- 
wise, he  was  jerked  into  observing  her  as  somebody  whom 
he  saw  nearly  every  day,  whose  features  were  still  only 
mistily  remembered.  She  had  beautiful  hair,  that  curled 
naturally.  It  was  almost  chestnut  colour,  and  was  long  and 
luxuriant.  Her  eyes  were  a  little  too  light,  but  they  were 
full  and  arch;  her  mouth,  when  she  did  not  twitch  it  in 
speaking,  through  self-consciousness,  was  pretty.  She  was 
slight  and  not  very  tall,  and  her  grace  started  awake  Vel- 
ancourt's  interest. 

"I  say!"  he  exclaimed  naively.  "Have  you  had  tooth- 
ache?" 

"All  last  night."  She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  swollen 
cheek,  half  turning  away.  "I  am  sleepy  now."  She  laughed, 
and  a  faint  commonness  in  her  laugh  jarred  Velancourt  as 
a  squeaking  slate-pencil  would  have  done.  She  looked  at 
him  in  the  pause.    "Do  you  ever  have  it — neuralgia?" 

"I  forget." 

"Oh,  I  say!  You  wouldn't  forget  if  you  had  it  like 
me.  Mother  says  it's  cold.  I'm  rather  delicate.  At  least, 
so  she  says.  Always  bothering  about  me,  she  is.  As  if  I 
couldn't  take  care  of  myself.  .  .  ."  Her  kindness  of  heart 
rescued  him  from  a  discourse.  "You  get  on  with  your 
dinner,"  she  said.     "It'll  be  cold." 

As  she  removed  the  tray  from  the  table,  she  looked 
back  casually. 


18  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"If  you're  good,"  she  said,  with  great  friendliness,  "you 
shall  have  some  treacle-pudding.     Like  some?" 

"I — well  .  .  .'"  stammered  Velancourt,  who  had  not  quite 
heard  what  she  said. 

"I  made  it  myself.    Not  often  I  make  a  pudding.  .  .  ." 

She  didn't  know,  once  she  was  outside  the  door,  why- 
she  had  told  him  that.  She  thought  to  herself :  "I'm  get- 
ting quite  saucy  with  him,"  and  sighed  loudly,  as  her  friends 
were  in  the  habit  of  doing.  "Fancy  me  saying  that  to  him," 
she  thought.    "Oh,  I  am  awful !" 


Ill 

Velancourt  sat  and  ate  his  dinner.  His  thoughts  were 
in  the  past,  on  a  subject  that  he  had  never  previously  con- 
sidered with  any  care.  He  was  trying  very  hard  to  remem- 
ber whether,  at  any  time  in  his  life,  he  had  suffered  from 
toothache.  He  was  so  sympathetic  that  he  passed  his  hand 
over  his  face.  He  wondered  if  it  was  possible  to  recall  by 
effort  of  will,  or  to  imagine  by  concentration  of  mind,  such 
pain  as  Cissie  had  felt.  He  had  often  turned  and  turned  in 
the  night,  from  sleeplessness.  .  .  . 

"Thank  you,"  was  all  he  could  say,  when  she  brought 
the  pudding.     "It's  awfully  kind.  .  .  ." 

"Oh !"  laughed  Cissie.  "You  wait  till  you've  tasted 
it !  It's  easy  enough  to  make.  I'm  going  to  make  some 
cakes  Sunday.  .  .  ."  She  stood  away  from  the  table,  with- 
drawing her  eyes.  "Mother  always  lets  me  do  anything  I 
like  with  the  flour.  She  says  it's  good  practice  for  me. 
Mother  says  some  girls  can't  cook  a  potato.  It's  the  way 
they're  brought  up,  she  says.  It's  quite  easy — when  you 
know.  They  teach  girls  to  cook  at  school,  now.  They 
have  to  say  what  they'd  get  if  they  had  to  make  a  dinner 
with  so  much.  I'm  very  fond  of  cooking.  Mother 
says "    She  stopped,  toeing  the  carpet.    "See,  girls  .  .  . 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  19 

Well,  girls  ought  to  know  how  to  cook.  I'm  rather  old- 
fashioned,  you  know.  Different  to  other  girls.  I  made 
some  toffee  last  week.  .  .  ."  She  checked  herself  again. 
"Thanks  very  much,"  she  concluded,  from  the  doorway. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  remember  about  the  tooth- 
ache. When  she  came  again  he  would  say  it.  He  would 
say:  "I  don't  remember  ever  having  it,  though  I  must 
have  had  my  teeth  aching  when  I  was  a  child.  But  I  know 
what  sleeplessness  is.  .  .  ." 

Cissie  was  occupied  in  thinking  that  she  had  talked  too 
much.  She  didn't  like  anybody  to  think  she  went  on 
and  on.  It  wasn't  true  about  her.  She  was  .  .  .  mother 
often  said  to  her:  "Well,  you  are  quiet.  Different  to 
Elsie,  I  must  say!"  But  then  Elsie  was  married;  and  she 
was  "gay."  Her  Bert  didn't  like  her  to  be  always  working. 
She'd  been  telling  mother  this  evening  how  Bert  had  said 
to  her :  "Don't  like  to  see  you  always  at  it."  Bert  did  go 
on.  .  .  .  Cissie  remembered  how  he'd  stood  under  the  mis- 
tletoe that  time.  Everybody  had  laughed.  "You  are  aw- 
ful!" she  had  said  to  him.  He  hadn't  caught  her,  either; 
though  he  had  knocked  over  a  chair.  "Steady  on,  there !" 
mother  had  called  out  to  him.  So  he'd  dragged  mother 
under  the  mistletoe.  Harry  Wingate  had  been  there.  But 
he  oiled  his  hair  too  much.  Mr.  Velancourt  was  different 
to  him,  she  thought.  He  was  a  gentleman — no,  well,  Harry 
was  very  gentlemanly,  too.  But  Mr.  Velancourt  was  dif- 
ferent. He  was  ...  He  treated  you  .  .  .  Harry  treated 
you  like  a  lady ;  but  Mr.  Velancourt  ...  He  was  so  quiet 

.  .  hardly  opened  his  mouth,  and  never  looked  .  .  .  She 
didn't  know.    Didn't  care,  either ! 

A  big  sigh  came.    Elsie  looked  up  sharply. 

"You're  in  love,  girl !"  she  said. 

"Mind  your  own  business,  Miss  Sharp!"  Cissie  cried, 
feeling  hot. 

"Don't  put  ideas  into  the  girl's  head!"  said  Mrs. 
Jenkins,  smartly.  She  was  mending  her  husband's  socks 
by  the  fire — a  heavy  woman  with  little  black  eyes  and  a 


20  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

wrinkled  brow.    She  threw  a  shrewd  glance  at  her  younger 
daughter,  her  eyes  half  closed  and  cautious. 


IV 

Velancourt,  eating  his  pudding  upstairs,  had  forgotten 
Cissie.  He  was  thinking  his  own  thoughts,  and  dreaming 
of  the  future,  of  some  wondrous  time  when,  having  known 
and  tasted  the  ineffable  sweetness  of  understanding,  he 
might  reveal  it  to  others.  To  know!  That  was  his  con- 
stant prayer.  And  so  long  a  gap  stretched  between  him 
and  the  high  ground  of  his  desire  that  his  heart  sometimes 
fainted  while  he  seemed  listening  awestruck  to  the  music 
of  the  spheres. 

How  hot  it  was  in  the  room!  He  opened  one  of  the 
windows,  and  leaned  out  into  the  evening  air.  A  muffled 
sound  of  many  pianos  came  to  him,  speaking  surely  of  the 
life  within  all  these  houses,  alien  and  unknown.  He  knew 
nothing  of  his  neighbours  save  that  they  were  as  lost  in  the 
world  of  vague  distances  as  himself.  Not  his  part  to  think 
of  close  rooms  and  jiggling  ornaments  and  gold  frames  to 
pictures  that  hung  awry,  of  worn  carpets  and  dusty  dry 
grass  in  the  fire-places,  and  internecine  warfare  and  chil- 
dren hot  and  overtired,  crying  and  grizzling,  and  the  inces- 
sant concern  of  his  fellow-residents  with  material  things. 
His  part  was  the  questioning  of  eternity.  Adrian  Velan- 
court was  not  the  first  who  has  asked  "Why  ?"  at  the  mys- 
teries of  life  and  death.  Filled  with  sincere  longing  as  he 
was,  he  was  yet  confused  and  shy  of  bringing  his  mind 
from  the  world  of  reverie  into  the  actual  world  of  his  neigh- 
bours and  their  preoccupations.  Night  seemed  to  him  a 
time  of  sad  ecstasy,  and  a  slamming  door  and  sudden  voices 
had  no  power  to  rob  him  of  the  thought  of  beauty.  He 
thought  how  black  the  road  seemed,  in  spite  of  the  lamps, 
and  looked  imagining  the  mysteries  that  lay  beyond  the 
darkness  of  the  soft  sky.     To  him  the  stars  held  all  the 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  21 

secrets,  clustered  high  and  remote  above  the  daily  world. 
He  gave  a  long  shuddering  sigh  of  heightened  feeling,  of 
emotion  called  up  by  his  own  intense  wish  to  know  the 
heart  of  the  night,  and  remained  at  the  window  watching 
until  his  own  fire  was  dead,  and  the  lamp-light  made  his 
presently  returning  eyes  water  and  smart.  Very  slowly  he 
turned  out  the  lamp  and  went  into  the  other  room,  opening 
the  window  there,  and  undressing  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 


CHAPTER    III 
IMPERFECT  SYMPATHIES 


THE  quiet  room  in  Great  James  Street  was  transformed. 
It  was  less  quiet.  Three  out  of  the  five  members  of 
the  Gretton  family  were  augmented  by  a  further  seven 
people,  two  girls,  five  men;  and  all  were  young  and  talka- 
tive. Amy  Betters,  the  author  at  twenty-three  of  a  single 
novel  of  profound  (even  impenetrable)  import,  conversed" 
vivaciously  with  Ervine  Dandison,  who,  on  the  strength 
of  great  loquacity  and  no  visible  means  of  support,  carried 
much  social  weight,  and  lived  in  unceasing  comfort,  be- 
sides being  made  welcome  in  a  variety  of  homes  where 
promising  young  men  gave  an  air  of  frugal  indulgence  in 
distinguished  company.  Sporrock,  heroically  famous  as 
the  taxi-driver  poet,  joined  issue  on  the  sonnet  with  Tom 
Pewter,  whose  talk  about  "numbers"  suggested  that  he 
had  some  professional  connection  with  song-writing.  Spor- 
rock himself  was  clean-shaven  and  "strong" ;  Pewter  was 
a  little  man  bearded  like  a  goat,  with  a  rather  childish 
voice.  Andie  Gremble  (hoping  everybody  would  think 
"Kemble")  "drew  out"  Mrs.  Gretton,  and  stood  before  her 
in  a  variety  of  self-conscious  attitudes,  listening  to  his  own 
sonorities,  while  Mrs.  Gretton  exerted  herself  to  remember 
half-forgotten  actors  in  order  to  please  him.  And  Joseph 
and  Susan  Amberley  talked  with  Barbara  and  Ernest  about 
the  position  of  women  in  the  modern  world.  Harry  was 
preparing  home  lessons  in  the  next  room ;  and  his  father, 
it  is  unpleasant  to  record,  was  helping  him. 

22 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  23 

It  was  not  a  very  full  gathering :  many  who  often 
came  to  the  Grettons'  free-and-easy  evening  party  were 
away,  or  were  otherwise  engaged.  But  it  was  vivacious. 
Pewter  had  confounded  Sporrock  by  referring  to  the  second 
verse  of  the  sonnet ;  Dandison  had  unfortunately  committed 
himself  to  a  definition  of  the  word  "drama,"  and  was  help- 
lessly battling  with  the  Socratic  method;  Barbara  could 
not  look,  for  anger,  at  the  eyes  of  Joseph  Amberley.  Mrs. 
Gretton  was  trying  to  cheer  Gremble  with  an  account  of 
her  juvenile  theatre-going,  not  yet  shocked  by  his  stentorian 
assertion  that  Robertson  was  vieux  jeu. 

As  for  Susan  Amberley,  she  was  a  Suffragist;  and 
bent,  at  least,  on  advertising  the  fact.  Amid  so  much 
manifest  intelligence,  it  was  the  only  possible  self-assertion. 
If  the  truth  could  ever  be  known  in  its  minutest  degree,  it 
was  Joseph  Amberley's  attitude  towards  his  sister  that 
transformed  Barbara  into  his  scowling  opponent.  Amber- 
ley's  virtues  were  as  water  before  Barbara's  stern  condem- 
nation of  his  general  attitude  of  inscrutable  wisdom.  On 
his  departure  she  would  clench  her  fists  and  cry  through 
grimly-clenched  teeth :  "That  awful  man !"  He  was  the 
only  man  who  laughed  at  Barbara :  he  loved  her. 

"Yes,  well  of  course,  what  I  mean,  yes,  there's  that, 
there's  that"  admitted  Dandison.  "But  I  mean  to  say,  you 
mustn't  take  it  for  granted  that  I  mean  .  .  ."  It  came  clear 
across  the  room,  in  his  thin  piercing  voice,  which  always 
apparently  rose  from  and  subsided  into  a  hum,  and  began 
and  ended  with  the  letter  "m." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Dandison?"  called  Barbara, 
glad  to  escape  from  Amberley.    "It  sounds  so  fascinating." 
"How  inhuman  you  are!"  Amberley  murmured.     The 
premature  novelist  took  upon  herself  to  report  progress. 
"He  doesn't  know,"  she  cried.    "Hasn't  the  least  idea!" 
"I    expect   you    monopolised    all   the    ideas,"    Amberley 
said,  as  they  came  nearer ;  and  thereby  offended  the  omnis- 
cient  Amy   Betters.      She   knew   that  he   didn't  like  her. 
Well,  who  could  have  done  so?     She  was  very  plain  and 


24  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

fair,  with  a  dull  plump  face;  and  she  was  dressed  in  a 
horrible  saffron-coloured  sack  with  purple  edges.  She  was 
the  least  appetising  of  human  beings,  and  her  hard  voice 
rattled  after  the  manner  of  a  clapper.  She  was  invariably 
and  offensively  sure  that  she  was  right.  .  .  .  Amberley 
thought  she  was  rather  a  fool,  and  it  was  unfortunate  that 
whatever  other  obtuseness  Amy  Betters  had,  she  was  un- 
erring in  her  sense  of  dislike.  Liking  nobody  very  much 
herself,  she  used  associates  as  sounding-boards  for  her 
own  opinions ;  and  at  the  first  recognition  of  distaste,  her 
malice  was  aroused,  thereafter  to  be  unslumbering. 

"That's  your  privilege,"  she  now  retorted. 

"Oh  no,"  Amberley  said.  "Not  ideas :  only  conversa- 
tion.   You  see,  I'm  a  prophet." 

"Good  gracious !  What  of  ?"  came  disdainfully  from 
Barbara. 

"Charity !"  he  laughed  back,  to  her  chagrin. 

"I  was  saying,"  sniffed  Dandison,  "  'm — to  Miss  Bet- 
ters here  .  .  .  She  said  .  .  ." 

"You  said  she  said?" 

"No,  Miss  .  .  ." 

"I  really  don't  think  they'd  be  interested!"  cried  Amy 
Betters,  with  a  look  of  hatred  at  Amberley.  He  stood, 
puzzled  at  her  awareness  of  his  distaste,  marvelling  at  her 
instinct.  Amberley  was  too  clever  and  too  honest  not  to 
make  mistakes  in  tact.  He  thought  that  so  long  as  he 
meant  no  offence,  no  offence  should  be  taken.  Amy  Betters 
always  desired  to  sting :  she  could  not  understand  badinage. 
Even  Susan,  upon  similar  provocation,  sometimes  hated 
him  for  not  taking  her  Suffrage-enthusiasm  quite  as  seri- 
ously as  her  friends  did.  She  said :  "He's  such  an  egoist 
that  he  can't  bear  egoism  in  others !"  Which  was  a  remark- 
ably sage  thought,  coming  from  Susan,  as  her  brother  was 
the  first  to  proclaim. 

"But,  my  dear  chap!"  cried  Sporrock,  in  the  little 
pause  that  followed  Amy  Betters's  irritated  speech.  "You 
can't  call  the  sestet  the  second  verse!" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  25 

"Oh  well,  of  course  .  .  .  You're  a  Varsity  man,  and 
.  .  ."  said  Pewter  hurriedly.  They  spoke  lower,  so  as  not 
to  be  overheard. 

"Is  he?"  eagerly  asked  Miss  Betters. 

"Most  illiterate,  so  I  should  think  so,"  Amberley  said. 

"He's  rather  a  good  man,"  explained  Ernest.  "His 
father  failed  when  young  Sporrock  had  been  up  at  Cam- 
bridge a  year;  and  so  Sporrock  drifted  into  the  motor- 
business,  and  became  a  chauffeur." 

"But  isn't  he  a  taxi-man?  Didn't  he  write  'I  sing  the 
song  of  the  traffic's  surge,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  They 
had  a  portrait  ...  in  uniform!" 

"A  pardonable  deception !" 

"What  a  fraud!     I  thought  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  but  aren't  they  all  registered?" 

"No,  do  tell  me:  I  thought  he  was  quite  a  humble 
person,  who  touched  his  cap  during  the  day  .  .  ."  Miss 
Betters  became  satirical.  "And  that  one  met  him  in  the 
evening." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Miss  Betters?"  asked  Amberley 
in  a  grave  voice. 

Miss  Betters  looked  at  him.  "I  just  looked  at  him," 
she  said  afterwards.    "Of  course,  the  man's  an  Utter  Cad." 


II 


After  looking  at  Amberley,  Miss  Betters  thought  she 
would  go  and  talk  to  some  simple  body,  such  as  Mrs.  Gret- 
ton.  Mrs.  Gretton  gave  people  the  idea  that  she  was  un- 
critical and  wonder-struck  at  each  new  portent.  The 
gathering  had  become  rather  narrowed  down  for  Amy 
Betters:  she  was  not  quite  sure  about  one's  conduct  to  a 
chauffeur;  song-writers  and  actors  were  beneath  her  no- 
tice; Barbara  had  too  keen  an  eye:  she  had  vanquished 
Dandison ;  Amberley  was  a  cad ;  and  she  wanted  to  impress 


26  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Susan  Amberley,  who  was  a  stranger,  and  she  had  not  yet 
reached  the  moment  for  dropping  a  gracious  word  to  the 
bright-faced  girl.  So  there  really  seemed  nobody  but  Mrs. 
Gretton. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Gretton  ...  I  must  find  a  moment  for 
you !"  she  observed. 

"Mr.  Gremble's  so  interesting,  dear  .  .  .  about  Mr. 
Benson.  .  .  ." 

"Which  of  the  Bensons?"  asked  Miss  Betters,  swiftly. 
"Oh,  the  actor  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  know  him."  She  left  it  to 
be  inferred  that  there  were  others,  his  superiors,  with  whom 
she  was  on  good  terms. 

"First-rate  fellow,"  said  Gremble.    "Absolutely." 

"Do  tell  me  where  you  get  those  delicious  meringues, 
Mrs.  Gretton  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Betters. 

Mrs.  Gretton  looked  right  across  the  room,  straight 
into  a  pair  of  solemn,  scrupulously  grave  eyes.  She  met 
these  eyes  with  a  scrutiny  as  impenetrable  as  their  own,  and 
Amberley  coughed. 

"Joe!  I  hope  you're  not  getting  consumptive,"  said 
Susan,  suspicious. 

"Very  odd !"  thought  Barbara.     "I  do  dislike  him." 

Amberley  went  and  sat  down  beside  Ernest,  because 
they  liked  each  other,  although  they  hardly  ever  talked 
more  than  commonplaces.  Amberley  was  enabled  to  look 
on,  his  favourite  occupation.  He  loved  to  be  in  shadow,  and 
to  watch  with  the  keenest  interest  and  with  the  quietest 
manner  whatever  was  passing  before  him.  So  pleasant  a 
form  of  detachment  is  given  to  few  able-bodied  people, 
whose  natural  animal  spirits  make  them  long  to  be  engaged 
in  the  arena.  Spectators  are  rare :  contemplation  is  too 
nearly  a  sublime  attribute:  only  learners  can  observe,  and 
observation  requires  too  much  self-discipline  to  be  a  com- 
mon virtue.  So  Amberley,  although  he  also  played  his 
part  when  occasion  arose,  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  game  of 
life.  He  could  see  all  these  people  in  the  dim  light,  crimson 
shaded ;  and  he  did  not  moralise.    He  did  not  think  of  them 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  27 

as  types:  to  him  they  were  as  indubitably  individuals  as 
they  were  to  themselves.  They  fascinated  him.  And  he 
could  see  Barbara — tall,  rather  beautiful,  rather  arrogant. 
.  .  .  No  single  gesture  of  hers  escaped  him.  Yet  he  neither 
stared  nor  peered  at  her ;  but  rather  was  aware  of  her,  and 
knew  intuitively  what  she  was  doing.  It  was  his  supremest 
delight  to  see  her  sitting  or  standing,  talking  or  listening, 
because  there  was  character  in  her  every  pose.  No  move- 
ment of  hers  was  abrupt  or  sudden:  everything  seemed  to 
flow  naturally  from  her  prime  vitality,  as  though  she  were 
exquisitely  poised,  and  beautiful  in  the  merest  passive  ful- 
filment of  each  moment's  impulse.  His  sense  of  her  was  not 
purely  pictorial;  it  was  not  intellectual.  Partly  it  was 
aesthetic :  she  pleased  his  taste,  or  at  any  rate  exercised  it : 
and  she  tremendously  interested  him.  He  was  not  her 
slave,  because  he  was  never  enslaved ;  but  his  love  for  her, 
as  he  realised,  was  the  finest  and  most  delicate  thing  in  his 
life.  His  love  for  Susan  was  more  amusing,  less  full  of 
poignant  feeling,  more  taken  for  granted  as  a  happy  thing. 
His  love  for  Barbara  was  a  precious,  apprehensive  delight, 
never  to  be  told  or  hinted,  or  even  to  be  vouchsafed  in  so 
many  words  to  his  own  mind:  it  was  a  thing  apart  from 
his  normal  scepticism,  sufficient  in  itself,  making  no  call 
upon  his  attention,  but  always  subsisting  by  its  own  perfect 
nutrition.  It  was  so  withdrawn,  so  involved  in  that  secret 
side  of  his  nature  that  was  never  to  be  known,  that  Bar- 
bara's responsive  feeling  was,  to  his  idea,  unimportant.  On 
that  point  his  executive  self,  by  virtue  of  which  he  was  a 
man,  saw  quite  clearly  that  if  he  had  a  straight  course  he 
would  always  win,  and  that  if  the  course  should  be  crowded, 
his  temperament  would  dictate  tactics  which  would  assure 
him  against  ignominious  defeat.  So  far,  these  notions  had 
not  communicated  themselves  very  clearly:  he  was  in  the 
most  disinterested  state  of  loving.  And  he  was  happy  in 
observing  Barbara,  who  was  wondering  how  so  sweet  a  girl 
as  Susan  could  be  Joseph  Amberley's  sister.  To  Barbara 
it  seemed  almost  an  irony,  as  though  the  world  might  be 


28  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

governed  by  a  Being  in  whom  the  imp  was  predominant. 
She  was  really  almost  inclined  to  carry  her  suspicion  into  a 
conviction,  by  expressing  it.  She  could  hear  herself  burst- 
ing out  with :  "It's  an  irony,  mother  ...  A  perfect 
irony."  And  once  said,  there  was  never  any  forgetting  it: 
there  the  statement  would  be,  irrevocable.  All  the  time  she 
was  thinking  thus  she  was  sympathetically  saying  "Yes 
.  .  .  yes  .  .  ."  to  Susan,  until  she  awoke  to  a  sense  of  her 
own  incongruous  inattentiveness. 


Ill 

"This  man  downstairs,"  said  Ernest,  quietly,  engaging 
Amberley  in  private  conversation.  "I  wish  you  could 
bring  him  along  one  time."    Amberley  looked  startled. 

"Velancourt?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  ...  I  will,  of  course; 
but  he's  the  queerest  lunatic.  I  like  him  very  much — in  a 
way.     If  I  can,  I'll  bring  him." 

"D'you  know  anything  about  him?" 

Amberley  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  think  so.  He  makes  me  feel  so  English.  I 
want  to  shout  at  him,  as  though  he  couldn't  understand 
ordinary  talk.  Perhaps  he's  deaf.  He's  one  of  those  ex- 
traordinary people  who  interest  you,  and  puzzle  you,  and 
irritate  you — and  I  get  rather  indifferent  to  him,  as  though 
he  slid  off,  through  not  being  properly  attached.  Know 
what  I  mean?  It's  as  though  you  made  all  the  advances, 
and  he  made  none,  and  only  suffered  yours  because  he 
doesn't  know  how  to  curse.  What  he  wants  is  a  thorough 
shaking  up.  He's  full  of  namby-pamby  vagueness,  and  a 
sort  of  .  .  .  He's  like  a  cat,  walking  alone ;  and  he's  got  all 
the  cat's  clawishness.  Yes :  he's  exactly  like  a  cat.  A  cat's 
always  a  stranger  .  .  .  Say  a  Persian,  or  an  Angoran. 
You're  never  sure  of  a  cat:  you're  never  sure  of  Velan- 
court.   I  suppose  people  are  like  that.  ...  I  seem  to  want 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  29 

somebody  with  good  pugnacity  when  I've  been  with  him. 
As  a  tonic,  I  mean." 

"I  know,"  nodded  Ernest.     "Couldn't  we " 

"I've  tried,  a  bit.  I've  cursed  him  for  a  Wandering 
Jew ;  I've  tried  to  make  him  sick  of  that  death-trap  down- 
stairs. Not  a  bit  of  good :  he  snarls  if  you  try  to  move 
him,  and  if  you're  angry  it's  like  hitting  a  child.  Just  as 
senseless  as  that — for  all  Dr.  Johnson  said  to  the  contrary." 

"He  wasn't  infallible.  He  wouldn't  have  been  so  jolly 
interesting."  Ernest  was  amateurishly  self-conscious  at  a 
literary  allusion. 

"Well,  I  think  Velancourt's  interesting.  He's  got  per- 
sonality— a  sort  of  genius,  if  you  won't  put  a  wrong  con- 
struction on  it.     He  interests  me." 

"No  more?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sympathetic  towards  him.  It's 
like  touching  velvet.  I  don't  want  to  excite  you,  in  case 
you're  disappointed,  but  I  feel  there's  just  something  rather 
splendid  about  him.  There's  something  rather  magnificent 
about  a  Persian  cat." 

Ernest  smiled  enjoyingly,  but  would  only  plead  that 
Velancourt  was  human,  while  the  Persian  cat  more  resem- 
bled Amberley  himself,  in  being  inhuman.  It  is  always 
surprising  to  be  thought  inhuman :  humanity  seems  to  em- 
brace so  much,  that  it  seems  invidious  to  exclude  the  chem- 
ist. So  Amberley  was  rather  shocked.  He  knew  he  was 
perhaps  more  human,  in  the  sense  of  having  greater  sus- 
ceptibility, than  Ernest  Gretton.  It  gave  him  something  to 
think  of  while  he  continued  to  absorb  the  sense  of  Barbara. 

"I'll  just  say  this  one  thing  about  Velancourt.  He's 
got  a  sort  of  dignity  that  impresses  me  as  tragic.  I  think 
he's  got  a  sense  of  beauty ;  and  that's  always  tragic.  Unless 
you  can  see  beauty  pure  and  naked,  you  can't  really  see  it 
at  all.  You're  sentimental,  through  trying  to  feel  it.  And 
it's  being  taken  for  granted,  somehow,  that  purity  and 
nakedness  are  tragic — you  know  newspapers  talk  of  'stark 
tragedy.'    They  get  hold  of  comic  notions." 


30  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"And  do  you  think  you've  got  a  sense  of  beauty?" 
asked  Ernest,  solicitously. 

"I'll  never  tell  you,"  Amberley  said.  "That's  my  van- 
ity. The  sense  is  over-claimed.  I  see  things  .  .  .  yes,  I 
see  things.     But  I'm  not  going  to  pretend." 

"What  an  awful  affectation  that  is!"  cried  Ernest. 
"Of  not  pretending."  His  voice  quivered:  his  hands  held 
the  sides  of  his  chair. 

Amberley  looked  gently  at  him,  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "Not  with  me, 
though.  That's  why  you  say  I'm  inhuman.  A  man  who's 
as  clear-headed  as  I  am,  who  pretends,  is  a  charlatan.  I'm 
not  a  charlatan :  I'm  a  prophet." 

"What  of?"  Ernest  echoed  Barbara's  earlier  speech. 

"Charity,"  Amberley  repeated. 

"Cold  comfort !" 

Amberley's  grave  eyes  stared  beyond  Ernest,  beyond 
Barbara,  until  they  encountered  a  sympathetic  smile  from 
Mrs.  Gretton. 

"Perhaps  I  mean  'understanding,' "  he  amended,  in  a 
still  voice. 

IV 

Miss  Betters  thought  it  was  time  to  go.  So  did  the 
taxi-driver.  So  did  Tom  Pewter,  who  really  had  an  ap- 
pointment at  the  Bodega  in  Bedford  Street.  So  did  Grem- 
ble,  who  was  going  so  far  with  Pewter.  So  did  Dandison, 
who  only  wanted  to  hang  about  until  Miss  Betters  was  far 
enough  away  to  be  safe.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her  any 
more.  Her  vanity  injured  his  amour  propre!  They  all 
went.  Susan  was  drawn  aside  by  Barbara,  and  hardly  heard 
the  rattle  that  Amy  Betters  gave  as  she  passed,  buttoning 
her  glove.  "Patronising  little  thing  .  .  .  that  awful  frock !" 
thought  Susan  to  herself.  Amy  Betters  thought  of  herself 
leaving  with  a  crowd  of  cavaliers,  and  was  inspirited.  She 
avoided  shaking  hands  with  Amberley:  she  did  not  even 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  31 

look  at  him :  she  bridled.  She  was  one  of  those  unfortunate 
women  who  love  nobody  well  enough  to  learn  their  own 
faults  of  ill-breeding  and  vanity,  and  who  thus  make  no 
friends  and  no  happiness  for  themselves.  Spleen  made 
her  writing  apt  and  professional — what  male  critics  called 
"feminine,"  and  women-critics  "spiteful."  Nobody  was 
sorry  at  her  going,  for  she  had  tired  all  she  had  spoken  to. 
Amberley  sighed  as  though  he  had  been  relieved  of  an 
incubus;  yet  he  was  the  only  one  present  who  was  sorry 
for  her.  He  could  have  told  her  home-truths  until  she 
quivered,  and  he  could  have  done  this  with  perfect  good- 
faith  ;  but  he  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  would  have 
bothered  to  do  it,  for  the  instinct  of  mankind  is  to  take 
shelter  in  indifference. 

Amberley,  seeing  Susan  standing  with  Barbara,  came 
across  and  pinched  his  sister's  arm. 

"Time,  Sue?"  he  asked.  Barbara,  reluctant  though  she 
was,  could  not  fail  to  see  Susan's  eyes  warm  with  affection. 
It  seemed  an  irony  to  her  that  the  girl's  insight,  otherwise 
so  shrewd,  should  fail  here. 

"Tiresome!"  said  Susan,  whose  idea  of  being  a  Suffra- 
gist was  resistance  to  all  kindness. 

"It's  quarter-past  eleven  .  .  .  Miss  Gretton  will  be 
tired." 

"He  means  he's  tired,  Barbara." 

Barbara's  eyes  met  his  in  steady  opposition.  She  would 
not  be  rude  to  him,  for  Susan's  sake. 

"Joe,  I've  been  asking  her  to  come  and  see  us." 

"How  nice  that  would  be,  Miss  Gretton,"  said  Amber- 
ley, serenely. 

"Barbara  won't  let  me  fix  a  date.  She  wants  to  leave 
it  open.  I  want  to  look  forward  to  it.  Besides,  I  don't 
want  her  to  come  and  find  me  out." 

"Gone  to  meeting."  There  was  an  exchange  of  ameni- 
ties between  brother  and  sister. 

"I  want  to  come;  but  I  really  can't  fix  a  date,  because 


32  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

I'm  so  busy,"  said  Barbara.    "You  send  me  a  card,  saying 
if  you'll  be  alone  one  evening." 

"Alone!"    said    the    unwelcome    one,    blandly.      "Surely 

Barbara's  patience  was  tried. 

"Well,  Mr.  Amberley,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you'd  be 
glad  of  my  consideration." 

"It  would  hurt  me  very  much,"  he  assured  her. 
"Wouldn't  Mrs.  Gretton  come  too?" 

"Mother  never  goes  out,"  said  Barbara,  in  some  sur- 
prise. Invitations  for  Mrs.  Gretton  somehow  did  not  seem 
to  "make  good."  She  never  visited  any  but  old  old  people, 
who  lived  at  Highbury,  or  Blackheath,  or  Ealing,  or  Ux- 
bridge — people  far  away,  whose  fortunes  she  followed  with 
unabated  zest,  although  her  family  could  hardly  distinguish 
between  their  names,  and  thought  of  them  as  neolithic. 

"Let  her  make  an  exception,"  urged  Amberley. 

The  words  "let  her"  produced  a  sudden  strangling 
feeling  of  rage  in  Barbara's  breast.  She  bit  her  lip,  her  eyes 
dark  as  night.  And  Amberley  thought  them  wonderful 
eyes,  not  limited  to  common  expressions,  but  rich  in  com- 
bined anger,  courtesy,  fear,  regard  for  Sue,  and  confused 
desire  for  concealment  of  all  expression. 

"I'm  afraid  she'll  never  come,"  Barbara  said,  in  a  second. 

"Let's  ask  her.  Mrs.  Gretton:  could  we  persuade  you 
to  come  with  Barbara  to  see  our  flat?  We  should  be  so 
glad." 

"And  so  should  I,"  Mrs.  Gretton  said,  coming  towards 
him.    "It's  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  asking  me." 

Barbara,  impotent,  could  do  nothing.  She  was  branded 
as  a  liar ;  and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"There !"  cried  Sue.    "Now,  what  day  ?" 

Barbara  clenched  her  teeth.  She  would  not  go  if  a  date 
were  fixed  now ! 

"No,"  suddenly  said  Amberley.    "Just  let  it  be  soon." 

To  Barbara,  aside,  he  added  words  that  thrilled  her 
with  extraordinary  emotion. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  33 

"I  know  your  mother  won't  want  to  come  on  the  fixed 
day — through  sheer  inactivity.  But  I  wish  you'd  try  to 
rush  her  into  starting  before  she  thinks  of  all  the  reasons 
against  ever  starting." 

Barbara  could  hardly  believe  that  she  had  heard  aright. 
The  stigma  was  removed :  he  knew  what  mothers  were : 
he  knew  what  her  mother  was !  It  was  a  marvel.  He  per- 
fectly well  understood  that  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Gretton  in- 
tended to  pay  the  visit:  he  perfectly  well  understood  that 
she  would  think  of  it  at  intervals  with  decreasing  warmth, 
and  that  on  the  day  itself  ten  thousand  invincible  reasons 
for  not  going  would  present  themselves  !  For  a  moment  she 
thought  his  insight  piercing:  then,  as  habit  swung  back,  he 
became  merely  impertinent,  the  cause  of  her  discomfiture. 

"I  have  no  authority,  one  way  or  the  other,"  she  said, 
pointedly.    And  her  anger  was  not  lessened  by  his  retort. 

"I  think  you'll  be  able  to  manage  it,"  he  said,  in  his 
quiet  voice. 

V 

They  were  out  of  the  house,  and  Susan  took  her  brother's 
arm. 

"Enjoyed  myself  awfully,"  she  said. 

"That's  good.     They're  all  very  nice." 

"Except  that  awful  girl  in  the  sack !" 

"Poor  thing!  God  made  her,  Sue."  Susan  snorted  at 
his  biology. 

"Silly  rubbish.  She's  a  survival.  She's  a  governess 
post-dated." 

"I  see.    Well,  did  you  like  Mrs.  Gretton?" 

"My  dear,  you  said  she  was  marvellous.  She  seemed 
to  me  just  an  ordinary  nice  old  thing,  with  a  kind  heart. 

.  .  .  Rather  silly;  but "     Susan  checked  herself  at  his 

amusedly-shaken  head.  "Oh,  you're  muddled  up  with  some 
perverse  fantastic  notion." 

"Sue.  Mrs.  Gretton  is  Woman  Through  All  The  Ages. 
Didn't  you  notice  that,  really?" 


34  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"No,"  snapped  Susan.  "I  think  Barbara's  far  more  in- 
teresting." 

"Modern,  modern,  modern.  She's  herself.  That's 
what's  the  matter  with  her.    She's  simply  herself." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  such  nonsense  for!" 
cried  Susan. 

"Dear  little  Sue  .  .  ."  Susan  writhed.  "Your  old 
brother  knows  and  sees  something  after  all  that  you  don't 
see.    I  am  of  course  an  inquirer,  a  mere  trifler " 

"You're  an  awful  bore!"  she  said,  in  a  little  high  voice 
of  exasperation. 

"Listen.  Now  listen.  Woman,  qua  sex,  is  sublime, 
infinitely  wonderful.  Women,  as  such,  are  no  more  won- 
derful than  my  hat.  They  are  women,  as  men  are  men. 
Mrs.  Gretton  is  Woman:  you,  and  Barbara  Gretton,  and 
all  your  moderns,  are  Women.  You've  lost  the  divine 
secret  of  being  Woman.  Mrs.  Gretton  is  the  las.t  of  her 
race.  You  have  one  sublime  quality,  which  you're  trying 
to  kill — the  quality  of  childishness.  Barbara  might,  in  cer- 
tain circumstances,  develop  the  latent  power,  by  ceasing  to 
be  herself  and  becoming  Woman.    If  not — waugh !" 

"Dear  Joe.  You  oughtn't  to  be  up  so  late,"  said  Susan. 
"It  overtires  you.  It  a  little  overtires  me.  You  don't 
see " 

"You're  going  to  tell  me  that  Women  become  Woman 
by  means  of  motherhood." 

"I  wasn't!  I  wasn't  going  to  argue  with  you  at  all. 
I  was  only  going  to  say  that  you  didn't  see  how  ridiculous 
you  made  yourself  by  all  this  talk." 

"You  think  it  injudicious?" 

"I  think  it's  perfectly  awful,  Joe.  And  there's  a  bus. 
Come  on !" 

They  caught  the  bus,  and  went  on  top.  And  they 
talked  of  many  things,  which  is  as  though  one  should  say 
that  Joseph  Amberley  listened  to  as  much  of  his  sister's 
conversation  as  he  thought  necessary  or  advisable. 


CHAPTER    IV 
HALF-LIGHTS 


THAT  evening  was  not  the  only  one  upon  which  Velan- 
court  felt  the  happiness  of  companionship.  As  the 
weather  continued  fine,  he  used  to  go  out  in  the  evenings 
in  order  to  walk  from  his  rooms  to  the  dim  mist-shrouded 
openness  of  Hempstead  Heath,  seeing  nothing  but  occa- 
sional lovers  on  a  seat,  catching  only  the  feeling  of  the  stars 
so  beautiful  in  the  skies,  and  wandering  home  later  in 
further  estrangement  from  the  common  life.  But  one  even- 
ing as  he  went  out  he  saw  Cissie  in  the  distance,  and  Cissie 
dawdled  until  he  came  up,  so  that  they  walked  a  little  way 
together.  It  was  only  as  far  as  the  milk-shop,  where  Cissie 
went  to  buy  eggs  for  the  next  day's  breakfast ;  but  Velan- 
court  found  himself  smiling  as  he  walked  on  alone.  He 
felt  so  bold,  at  speaking  to  her.  And  Cissie  felt  almost 
elated  at  the  way  in  which  he  raised  his  hat.  Somehow 
he  put  a  peculiar  constraint  upon  her,  so  that  she  spoke  in 
tones  as  low  as  his  own,  and  walked  quietly,  and  was  sub- 
dued ;  but  within,  her  heart  was  beating  fast,  and  she  dared 
not  laugh,  in  case  she  should  laugh  loudly,  as  the  girls  did 
who  doubled  up  and  went  whooping  along  the  street  after 
a  glance  from  some  man.  It  didn't  take  much  to  set  them 
off,  she  thought.  Silly  cats.  She  peeped  out  through  the 
shop  window  at  Velancourt  as  he  went  on  his  way,  and  as 
he  looked  back  she  held  up  her  hand  in  farewell. 

The  milkman  hastened  to  serve  her. 

"Don't  want  to  keep  him  waitin',  miss,"  he  said.     Well. 

35 


36  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

she  couldn't  help  laughing  at  that,  although  she  was  bound 
to  protest. 

"Don't  know  what  you  mean,"   she  said.     "Don't  you 

break  my  eggs." 

"Ah  well,  we  all  know  what  you  young  ladies  are!" 
said  the  milkman. 

"You  go  along!"  Cissie  couldn't  keep  pace  with  such 
badinage.  She  hurried  home,  laughing  to  herself,  holding 
the  eggs  very  firmly,  and  looking  out  so  as  to  avoid  col- 
liding with  anybody.  It  was  very  funny  how  everybody 
seemed  to  look  at  her  this  evening:  her  cheeks  felt  quite 
hot.  There  were  great  moths  fluttering  round  the  electric 
street-lamps.  Silly  things!  She  was  very  quiet  all  the 
evening,  with  her  mouth  quite  closed.  Her  father  read  a 
newspaper  in  the  kitchen,  smoking,  and  equally  quiet.  Her 
mother  was  out.  The  house  was  absolutely  silent,  so  that 
Cissie  could  hear  all  the  steps  that  echoed  down  the  road 
and  past  the  front  door.  She  could  not  sew,  could  only  sit 
there  quite  still,  with  her  mind  taking  little  jerks  back  into 
memory,  and  saying  the  same  things  over  and  over  again. 
She  had  never  had  so  quiet  and  thoughtful  an  evening. 

Velancourt  talked  to  himself  as  he  walked  along.  He 
felt  as  though  the  last  glimpse  of  Cissie  in  the  shop  had 
been  a  little  happy  finish  to  their  talk.  The  talk  had  been 
about — he  could  remember  nothing  of  what  they  had  said. 
Perhaps  they  hadn't  said  anything!  He  had  said  ...  oh, 
it  was  utterly  banal  He  had  asked  her  if  she  was  going 
out ;  and  she  had  told  him  where  she  was  going.  Was  there 
really  nothing  else  they  had  said?  He  walked  quickly  on- 
wards, past  the  Camden  Town  Tube  Station,  and  through 
a  number  of  side  turnings,  until  he  came,  after  nearly  an 
hour's  walk,  to  the  Heath.  It  was  wonderfully  calm  and 
warm,  and  he  stepped  off  the  path,  looking  at  the  distant 
horizon,  where  the  grey  sky  touched  and  fell  beyond  the 
black  silhouetted  trees. 

Somehow  all  his  days  seemed  suddenly  empty.  There 
was  nothing  in  them  except  his  own  thoughts,  and  they  did 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  37 

not  bear  thinking  over  afresh  in  this  wide  dark  stretch  of 
open  land.  The  Heath  seemed  to  expand  at  night  into  a 
limitless  space,  mysterious  as  a  moorland  upon  lonely  hills. 
How  sweet  it  was!  It  was  beautiful!  A  fine  wind  came 
across  the  Heath,  meeting  him,  and  making  the  leaves  rustle 
against  the  branches  that  each  night  at  this  season  grew 
more  naked. 

Near  him,  as  he  walked,  two  lovers,  who  thought 
themselves  more  remote  than  they  were,  stopped  in  their 
aimless  rambling  over  the  Heath.  Velancourt  heard  their 
soft  kiss,  and  his  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  Then  he  went 
on,  a  slight  flush  risen  to  his  cheeks.  He  thought  how 
beautiful  it  was  to  love  and  to  be  loved.  It  seemed  to  him 
the  most  wonderful  thing  in  life.  His  eyes  were  soft,  and 
his  throat  was  parched  as  he  strode  onward.  Love  was 
always  something  apart  from  him :  he  continually  reached 
out  in  ecstasy  to  love  .  .  .  and  the  kiss  made  his  ecstasy  a 
mockery.  He  loved  nothing :  he  loved  love.  He  was  a  cal- 
low .  .  .  the  laughing-stock  of  innumerable  jokers.  His 
lips  trembled. 


II 

It  was  after  that  that  Amberley  suggested  that  he 
should  come  one  evening  to  the  Grettons' ;  but  Velancourt 
was  frigid  with  shyness  and  with  the  dread  of  meeting  new 
acquaintances.  He  stammered  a  refusal,  and  Amberley, 
satisfied  that  progress  had  been  made  even  by  the  mention 
of  such  a  possibility,  let  the  matter  rest.  He  had  asked 
Velancourt  to  his  own  home,  and  meant  that  he  should  still 
come ;  but  Velancourt  began  to  avoid  him,  so  Amberley  said 
to  himself,  "All  right,  my  boy.  Wait !"  and  said  no  other 
word.  Velancourt  seemed  very  busy,  very  preoccupied, 
very  pale  and  handsome:  Amberley  saw  no  occasion  for 
further  unwelcome  endeavour  at  the  moment.  He  allowed 
his  friend  to  go  his  own  way.    What  that  way  was,  he  did 


38  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

not  greatly  care.  He  had  his  own  affairs,  and  he  also  was 
busy.    He  was  too  busy  to  go  to  the  Grettons'. 

Velancourt,  for  his  part,  felt  inordinately  busy.  He 
gathered  papers  upon  his  desk,  so  that  he  never  could  find 
anything ;  and  deliciously  he  felt  important  and  swollen  with 
significance.  When  he  spoke  to  himself  he  started,  as 
though  awakened  by  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  And  he 
began  to  walk  about  the  big  room,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  eyes  bright,  thinking  of  nothing,  and  say- 
ing a  long  drawling  ruminative  "Yes"  to  himself  every  now 
and  then,  and  smiling.  And  he  was  more  vague  than  ever, 
with  a  soothed  feeling  of  happy  busy-ness  pervading  his 
nature. 

He  began  to  feel  disappointment  when  Mrs.  Jenkins 
waited  upon  him.  She  was  so  dark,  and  so  aggressive ;  and 
she  thumped  things  down  on  the  table  with  an  air  almost 
of  unwillingness — as  though  she  meant  to  imply  that  she 
had  known  of  a  better  state  of  life  than  letting  lodgings. 
Velancourt  treated  her  with  his  old  distance  of  manner, 
because  she  never  offered  any  observation,  but  looked  a 
little  worn  and  disagreeable,  as  though  the  monotony  of 
meals  had  dried  up  every  interest  she  had  once  possessed. 
But  the  next  meal  was  generally  brought  by  Cissie,  who 
moved  restlessly  under  his  hurried  glance,  and  smiled  as 
though  she  could  never  stop. 

Cissie  was  in  a  thrill  of  delight.  She  did  not  under- 
stand herself;  but  she  seemed  to  find  the  days  endless,  full 
of  things  half  done — things  taken  up  and  dropped  with 
impatience.  She  began  to  ask  Velancourt  what  he  liked  to 
eat,  so  that  he  might  always  have  some  favourite  dish,  if 
that  could  be  reconciled  with  Mrs.  Jenkins's  notion  of  do- 
mestic economy.  It  was  a  check  to  her  that  he  did  not 
seem  to  know  his  own  tastes  very  well.  It  seemed  ridicu- 
lous to  her  that  he  should  so  often  say :  "I'm  afraid  I  don't 
know  what  that  is" ;  but  when  he  said  that  she  answered  by 
a  little  illustrative  wave  of  the  hand,  and:  "You  know 
...  a  crust,  and  ...  a  ...  all  chopped  fine,"  so  that  she 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  39 

felt  like  a  linguist  making  some  progress  with  an  Eskimo. 
She  would  come  into  the  sitting-room  in  the  morning,  and 
hum  as  she  flung  the  cloth  over  the  table;  and  Velancourt 
never  knew  what  strange  intricacies  of  darning  his  hose 
revealed.  Buttons  reappeared  as  if  by  magic.  The  room 
became  brighter,  and  once  one  of  his  books  was  replaced 
upside  down.  .  .  . 

Velancourt  was  still  shy  with  her:  they  both  behaved 
with  embarrassment.  There  came  times  when  he  almost 
dreaded  the  encounter;  and  yet  he  was  disappointed  when 
he  missed  it.  One  day  there  were  chrysanthemums  in  a 
glass  on  the  table.  He  wondered  why  the  room  seemed  so 
fresh,  until  he  saw  the  flowers  standing  there,  as  white  as 
snowdrops ;  and  his  heart  softened.  Chrysanthemums  were 
not  his  favourite  flowers — he  loved  most  the  earliest  blooms, 
such  as  the  crocus,  and  primrose,  and  daffodil, — but  flowers 
of  any  kind  were  his  passion.  "  '  'Mid  hush'd  cool-rooted 
flowers,  fragrant  eyed,'  "  he  thought.  They  seemed  to  him 
to  speak  most  truly  of  everything  he  loved  best  in  the 
world.  To  find  unexpected  flowers  in  his  room  brought 
tears  almost  to  his  eyes.  He  felt  it  as  the  first  understand- 
ing kindness  ever  shown  to  his  newly-emphatic  loneliness. 
How  lonely  he  was  !  ...  He  thanked  Cissie  for  the  flowers. 

"Thought  you'd  like  them,"  she  said.  "My  sister  Elsie 
brought  us  a  lot.  Her  boy's  got  a  garden  full  of  them.  All 
different  colours,  you  know — not  all  white,  like  these  are. 
He's  mad  on  a  garden." 

"  'And  indeed,'  "  thought  Velancourt  to  himself,  "  'it  is 
the  purest  of  human  pleasures.'  " 


III 

The  nights  drew  in,  and  the  days  grew  shorter,  so  that 
a  twilight  seemed  always  upon  the  nearer  suburbs,  and  a 
dull  mist  for  ever  hovering  above  Great  James  Street.  His 
walks  were  more  and  more  in  the  darkness,  and  over  earth 


4o  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

that  first  was  harder  with  the  chill  air,  and  then  softer  with 
the  damp  clinging  mists  which  seemed  to  hang  in  odd 
streaming  wisps  even  at  midday  in  the  fields  more  distant 
from  London.  One  Sunday,  when  he  returned  for  tea 
after  a  short  afternoon  walk,  he  went  slowly  upstairs  in 
the  dark,  feeling  his  way,  and  making  as  little  noise  as 
might  be,  for  fear  of  disturbing  Mr.  Jenkins's  afternoon 
nap.  His  room  door  was  ajar,  and  he  went  in  on  tiptoe. 
Cissie  was  by  the  table,  and  the  room  was  in  darkness.  He 
could  see  her  pale  blouse  in  the  gloom,  and  her  face  above 
it.  As  she  struck  the  match  for  the  lamp  it  sprayed  up  a 
tiny  light  that  sent  startling  shadows  over  her  face  and 
hair;  and  she  looked  so  astoundingly  beautiful  that  he 
caught  his  breath.  Nor  could  he  forget  it.  Whatever 
words  she  spoke  did  not  reach  him ;  he  only  saw  beauty  in 
the  dim  light,  and  no  words  could  have  robbed  him  of  that 
exquisite  first  impression.  Long  after  she  had  gone,  he  sat 
in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  with  his  eyes  closed,  recalling  the 
vision. 


CHAPTER   V 
PRECIPITANCE 

I 

IT  really  seemed  the  merest  chance  that  led  to  the  first 
of  the  walks  taken  together  by  Cissie  and  Velancourt. 
He  went  out  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  after  the  midday 
meal,  and  as  he  turned  into  the  main  road  he  saw  Cissie 
standing,  apparently,  just  round  the  corner.  Cissie  said : 
"Oh!"  and  he  half  noticed  that  her  colour  deepened.  She 
was  going,  it  seemed,  "up  here."  He  was  going  in  that 
direction  also.  It  was  the  most  pleasant  meeting,  and  they 
walked  together.  Velancourt  said  nothing,  because  he  was 
overcome  by  a  strange  self-consciousness.  He  saw  nothing 
at  all  of  their  route;  but  was  frantically  aware  that  they 
were  walking  together.  He  looked  across  the  road;  he 
looked  ahead;  he  half  looked  at  Cissie,  who  walked  with 
her  eyes  cast  down.  It  was  intolerable!  But  it  was  ex- 
traordinarily pleasant.  He  could  see  her  neat  walking- 
shoes,  her  gloved  hand,  the  regular  movement  of  her  skirt 
as  she  walked.  It  was  daylight,  and  all  the  world  to  see. 
Which  of  the  two  was  more  tantalised  between  pleasure  and 
the  desire  for  flight  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

"What  a  noise  the  motor-buses  make,  don't  they !  They 
don't  do  anything  to  keep  up  the  roads,  father  says.  It  is 
a  shame ;  and  the  men  get  such  little  wages,  and  have  to  do 
it  all  on  that;  and  father  says  .  .  .  But  they're  awfully 
convenient,  of  course.  Take  you  anywhere  you  want  to  go. 
They  can  go  where  trams  can't  go.  .  .  .  It's  a  wonder  to 
see  the  change  in  the  traffic  these  last  few  years.     Poor 

4i 


42  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

people  can  get  out  into  the  country.  Mother  says  she  re- 
members when  it  was  all  green  fields.  She  used  to  have  to 
walk.  .  .  .  Father  comes  from  the  country,  you  know. 
Uses  funny  country  words  every  now  and  then.  .  .  .  Tm 
all  dithered,'  he  says."  Breathelessly,  Cissie  kept  up  with 
Velancourt  and  made  the  running.  All  the  girls  they  passed 
looked  them  up  and  down.  Some  of  them  said  things  to 
the  young  men  by  whom  they  were  accompanied ;  and  there 
was  laughter.  Velancourt  did  not  hear  the  laughter;  but 
Cissie  heard  every  drop  of  it  and  talked  the  more  rapidly. 
They  walked  a  long  way  together. 

"Mercy!"  cried  Cissie.  "It's  four  o'clock.  I  must  go 
back!" 

"I "  began  Velancourt,  and  turned  back  with  her. 

Cissie  hovered  a  minute  at  that. 

"Want  your  tea  ?"  she  asked  hesitatingly. 

"Er  .  .  .  yes.    Yes,  I  should  be  .  .  ." 

They  walked  back  the  same  way  that  they  had  come. 
It  did  not  occur  to  Velancourt  that  owing  to  Cissie's  shorter 
steps  they  had  come  a  shorter  distance  than  he  would  have 
gone  if  he  had  been  alone.  His  own  progress  was  so 
strangely  uncertain — now  fast,  now  slow — that  he  had 
sometimes  made  tremendous  pace;  but  whenever  he  had 
been  able  for  awhile  to  overcome  his  self-consciousness  he 
had  dawdled  to  suit  her  capacity.  The  return  was  even 
slower.  Already  the  light  seemed  to  be  falling,  so  dull  was 
the  sky  and  so  grey  the  neighbourhood.  The  big  red  buses 
rattled  by,  and  the  brown-and-cream  tramcars  ground 
their  heavy  weight  over  their  own  lines.  There  was  little 
other  traffic,  but  a  casual  strolling  of  girls  and  young  men 
littered  the  pavement  for  many  yards  ahead.  They  hardly 
spoke  on  the  return  journey;  but  now  and  again  stole  sud- 
den glances  at  one  another.  Velancourt  could  not  help 
seeing  how  pretty  Cissie  was,  and  how  timid.  He  did  not 
notice  how  anxious  some  of  her  glances  at  passers  were, 
and  how  shrewd  were  others :  his  own  feelings  were  too 
confused  and  conflicting.    Somehow  he  longed  now  for  the 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  43 

adventure  to  be  over,  as  though  it  had  tried  his  nerves 
rather  than  stimulated  them,  and  as  though  it  had  left  him 
jaded  and  with  a  sense  of  failure. 

Cissie  hesitated  once  or  twice.  She  looked  at  him,  she 
looked  away,  half  stopped  and  then  went  on.  Suddenly 
she  spoke. 

"D'you  mind  me  hurrying  on?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  can  hurry,"  he  began.    It  would  not  do. 

"No.    I  mean  ...  a  ...  I'd  rather." 

He  puzzled  a  little;  but  let  her  go.  He  watched  her 
little  figure  leave  his  side  and  go  forward  at  a  great  speed. 
When  he  reached  the  corner  she  was  not  in  sight.  The 
front  door  of  the  Jenkins's  house  was  closed,  so  that  he  had 
to  use  his  key.  He  could  hear  Mr.  Jenkins  speaking  in  the 
kitchen,  in  a  low  growl,  and  could  hear  the  tea-things  being 
chinkled  together  as  they  were  hurriedly  laid  out  in  prepa- 
ration for  the  meal.  He  went  up  the  stairs  and  into  his  own 
sitting-room,  smoothing  his  hair  and  looking  at  the  book 
he  had  read  over  his  midday  dinner.  It  was  the  Faerie 
Queene,  and  he  idly  returned  to  the  fight  between  Prince 
Arthur  and  the  giant  Orgoglio.  But  he  could  not  read  :  his 
attention  was  elsewhere.  He  was  listening.  Why  had  Cis- 
sie hurried  on  without  him?  It  seemed  so  curious.  She 
would  be  bringing  his  tea  in  a  moment.  Perhaps  she  would 
not  bring  it.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Jenkins  would  bring  it.  He 
strained  his  ears  to  catch  the  first  sound  upon  the  stairs,  so 
that  he  might  guess  who  carried  the  tray.  He  knew  that 
Mrs.  Jenkins  trod  heavily,  as  though  her  skirts  were  too 
long  in  front.  He  hoped  for  the  light  quick  step  that  he 
was  learning  to  recognise.  A  little  crash  came,  as  of  a 
fallen  poker.  Still  no  sound  upon  the  stairs.  At  last  the 
door.  Three  quick  little  sudden  steps  up  the  three  stairs 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  hall! 


44  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 


II 

She  was  coming:  she  was  there!  The  blood  rose  to 
his  cheeks,  and  he  stood  while  she  put  down  the  tray.  She 
did  not  look  at  him,  but  he  saw  her  hands — they  were  small 
hands — busy  with  the  deft  arrangement  of  cup  and  saucer 
and  sugar-bowl. 

"Tea  in  a  minute!"  she  said  abruptly,  over  her  shoul- 
der, as  she  left  him. 

Velancourt  stood  irresolute.  His  cheeks  had  paled 
again,  and  his  lips  were  parted.  She  was  lovely :  she  was 
kind,  good.  ...  He  could  tell  she  was  embarrassed  as  well 
as  he.  Yet  she  was  surely  just  as  happy ;  he  could  hear  her 
singing  below.  He  would  see  her  again  in  the  shortest 
space  of  time;  and  yet  once  again  when  she  cleared  the 
table.  He  had  not  lighted  the  lamp;  the  room  was  in  a 
pearly  darkness  very  sweet  to  see  and  to  feel  as  it  en- 
wrapped him  so  deliciously.  In  the  sky  no  stars  were  yet 
visible ;  the  sky  was  enveloped  in  a  smoky  mist  that  seemed 
to  droop  into  dusk  in  all  the  corners  of  the  room,  and  yet 
to  leave  the  white  tablecloth  shining  like  silver.  It  was  all 
in  tune  with  his  mood,  that  was  not  vivid  nor  excited,  but  of 
a  sort  of  heightened  calm:  his  heart  was  beating  a  little 
faster,  but  still  as  regular  as  ever.  In  the  twilight  Velan- 
court was  smiling:  he  had  never  been  so  happy.  He  re- 
ceived happiness  as  he  received  the  winds  of  summer;  he 
was  passive  under  its  caress. 

The  eager  steps  again !  Her  hand  seemed  almost  con- 
sciously to  tremble  against  his  for  the  merest  instant. 

"You'll  want  the  light,"  Cissie  said,  half  lingering,  her 
voice  almost  metallic  in  its  abruptness. 

"Not  yet.  .  .  ."  If  she  could  have  stayed !  The  door 
closed,  and  he  had  only  the  sense  of  her  disappearing  move- 
ment, that  had  stirred  the  air  and  left  him  with  a  hastily- 
caught  vision  of  her  in  the  motion  of  turning.  It  was  as 
though  the  twilight  transfigured  her  and  made  his  heart 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  45 

soft  and  tender  as  it  had  never  been :  he  felt  that  his  heart 
had  been  asleep  or  frozen,  and  as  though  it  were  now  for 
the  first  time  stirring  to  meet  a  new  life.  How  long  he  sat 
staring  at  the  closed  door,  he  did  not  know.  Yet  something 
made  him  acknowledge  frowningly  that  Cissie  would  expect 
him  to  drink  his  tea  and  eat  his  bread  and  butter  and  cake 
— that  she,  of  course,  had  prepared.  He  did  not  smile  at 
that :  he  began  his  tea  t-hinking  still  of  Cissie.  Then  his 
mind  drifted  off  into  beautiful  remembrances  of  "I  send  my 
heart  to  thee  in  this  my  singing,"  and,  more  philosophically, 
to  thought  of  that  poem  about  the  King  Ozymandias,  which 
he  knew  by  heart,  wherein  the  haughty  king's  boasted 
works  are  shown  submerged  in  the  desert. 

The  dusk  grew  into  darkness,  and  still  he  sat  there  in 
silence.  Long  ago  he  had  seen  the  sky  deepen  to  a  dull 
grey,  and  the  gas-lamp  over  the  way  flutter  up  into  a  high 
steady  little  light ;  but  he  did  not  move.  He  heard  his  door 
open,  and  brought  tranquil  eyes  round  to  see  the  shadowy 
figure  of  Cissie. 

"You're  all  in  the  dark !"  she  said,  in  a  hushed  tone. 
It  was  a  moment  before  he  could  speak. 

"Yes.     I  didn't  notice,"  he  murmured. 

"You  are  funny."  Still  her  voice  was  hushed.  "D'you 
like  to  sit  in  the  dark?  Gives  me  the  creeps.  Course,  it's 
very  nice  sometimes."  Her  voice  was  lower.  She  was  near 
him,  bending  over  the  table,  stretching  her  arm  across  to  the 
sugar-bowl.    Her  shoulder  was  very  near  his  face. 

"It's  my  favourite  time  of  day,"  he  said.  They  had 
never  seemed  to  him  so  intimate. 

"It's  so  awfully  quiet,"  Cissie  objected.  But  her  speech 
had  startlingly  caught  his  inflections :  it  was  not  Cis- 
sie's  speech  at  all.  He  did  not  answer,  his  eyes  smiling  at 
her  in  the  darkness,  unconscious  that  she  could  not  see  the 
smile  and  so  fill  the  silence.  Cissie  moved  away  sharply. 
"You  won't  have  the  lamp  yet?"  She  spoke  thickly,  and 
she  lifted  the  tray.  As  he  held  the  door  open  she  passed 
him  with  her  head  lowered,  without  thanking  him  or  look- 


46  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

ing  up.  Some  sensitiveness  of  his  own  caught  the  failure 
of  the  moment;  yet  he  could  not  explain  it  by  any  reference 
to  their  talk.  It  had  been  so  short,  and  so  full  that  he 
could  not  imagine  it  otherwise.  Oh,  it  was  nothing:  he'd 
imagined  it:  there  was  nothing.  What  could  there  be? 
Why,  good  gracious !  his  mind  was  making  and  building  a 
fabric  where  no  material  existed. 

A  dullness  fell  upon  him;  a  strange  heavy  mood  of 
despondency  such  as  he  had  not  recently  felt.  He  was 
alone,  friendless,  useless.  .  .  .  What  did  life  hold?  Other 
men  went  triumphant  (was  it  from  failure  to  failure?)  :  he 
alone  was  without  a  goal,  and  without  energy  to  reach  a 
goal,  should  one  exist.  A  man  like  Amberley,  callous  and 
impertinent,  knew  what  he  wanted,  and  went  for  it.  So  did 
most  men.  He  alone  stood  by,  swaying  like  a  frail  tree  in 
a  hurricane,  aimless,  improvident.  What  was  there  in  him? 
Nothing.  Only  unrest,  wicked  hatred  of  life,  unhappiness. 
Would  it  last  through  his  lifetime?  Was  he  doomed  for 
ever  to  be  alone  in  the  midst  of  unsympathetic  spirits,  alien, 
unknown,  friend-shunning? 

Men  had  no  friendship  for  such  as  he.  They  went  by 
with  their  noses  to  the  ground,  following  the  scent  of 
money  and  money  and  more  money,  with  their  eyes  blood- 
shot, and  their  souls  dried  and  dwindling  like  the  wild-ass's 
skin  in  the  story.  They  had  no  throw-back  into  a  life 
where  he  could  meet  them  and  be  friends.  They  despised 
him,  thought  little  of  him.  Oh,  bitter  the  thought  was  to 
him  in  his  loneliness,  sad  and  friendless  as  he  seemed.  Not 
one  of  them  understood— not  one  knew  the  seeking  of  his 
soul,  the  joy  that  he  could  command  thus  solitary  and  aloof. 
The  splendours  he  enjoyed  were  secret  and  everlasting: 
his  happiness  was  real.  Simple  in  the  most  exquisite  de- 
gree, it  was  by  its  very  simplicity  incommunicable.  He 
scorned  the  world :  he  would  stand  alone  through  his  life, 
unfaltering.  They  would  go  on  in  their  mad  hunger  for 
Hell :  as  Dante  made  Hell  the  gratification  of  the  evil  choice 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  47 

so  he  made  it.  Hell  was  Worldly  success :  Paradise  was — 
O  God,  not  failure  of  courage ! 

In  the  darkness  Velancourt  bowed  his  head.  It  was  not 
pride  that  swelled  his  heart :  it  was  the  pent-up  thought 
that  filled  his  brain  and  gave  him  no  light,  no  air.  Possess- 
ing, he  had  thought,  the  secret  of  spiritual  happiness,  he 
found  himself  at  last,  beyond  anything  he  had  ever  yet  rec- 
ognised, desiring  human  intercourse.  The  beauty  that  had 
been  his  solace  withdrew  immeasurable  degrees :  he  was 
forsaken.  He  could  see  how  alone  he  was  among  millions 
of  his  fellows.  No  consolation  could  reach  him  at  this 
hour. 

"Cissie !"  he  whispered,  his  head  in  his  hands.  The  dark 
room  was  very  dark  now. 

Ill 

Then,  in  the  darkness,  he  knew  she  had  returned,  al- 
though he  had  not  heard  her  coming  because  of  the 
closed  door. 

"I've  brought  you  some  matches,"  Cissie  said  in  her 
prosaic  voice.  And  somehow  she  seemed  to  be  over  beside 
him,  and  he  caught  her  hand  and  held  it.  "Oh,  what  is  it, 
what  is  it?"  she  said,  half  crying.  He  felt  her  hand 
wrenched  free,  and  her  arms  about  him,  and  his  face  was 
held  tightly  against  her  soft  breast.  For  an  eternity  they 
seemed  to  stay  so,  until  Cissie  slipped  to  her  knees.  Now 
Velancourt's  arms  were  round  her  shoulders,  and  his  face 
was  fiercely  against  hers. 

"Kiss  me,  kiss  me !"  she  begged. 

"Oh,  my  dear !"  He  felt  warm  soft  kisses  upon  his  own 
lips,  hurried,  eager. 

"Dear,  let  me  go.  .  .  .  Let  me  go.  They'll  notice.  I 
...  let  me  go." 

He  let  her  go,  and  she  pressed  back  into  his  arms.  He 
was  terribly  excited  ;  but  not  happy.  Something  kept  saying 
in  his  head :    "It's  done,  it's  done,  it's  done,"  over  and  over 


48  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

again,  like  a  curfew,  or  the  dreadful  ringing  of  a  buoy  at 
night  in  a  dark  sea.  It  was  as  though,  defiantly,  he  had  ac- 
cepted the  doctrine  of  the  Evil  Choice,  to  demonstrate  a 
strength  of  purpose  that  had  its  root  in  weakness.  He  was 
trembling,  vehement,  like  a  counsel  with  a  bad  case.  And 
Cissie  was  in  his  arms,  against  his  heart,  and  he  heard  her 
quick  breathing,  and  felt  her  cheek  flushing  against  his  own. 
He  seemed  stifled,  as  though  he  could  bear  no  more,  and 
the  blood  was  behind  his  eyes,  that  stared  now  blindly  be- 
fore him  at  the  impenetrable  darkness. 


CHAPTER   VI 

AMBERLEY   ASCENDING 


THE  Amberleys  breakfasted  late.  Mrs.  Amberley  al- 
ways lay  in  bed  until  eleven  o'clock;  Susan  dreaded 
the  housework  she  so  much  disliked ;  Joseph  found  it  hard 
to  rise  because  his  work  on  the  previous  day  had  been  too 
strenuous.  They  were  always  hoping  for  permanent 
amendment ;  and  in  the  summer  the  temporary  virtuosity  of 
early  rising  sometimes  lasted  for  three  full  weeks.  But 
then  Susan's  energy  flagged.  Her  enthusiasms  so  exhausted 
her  that  she  was  impatient  of  daily  needs.  She  did  not 
care  for  work  in  the  home :  sewing  and  knitting  and  darn- 
ing were  abhorrent  to  her:  sweeping  and  cleaning  were 
provocative  of  loathing.  In  vain  Joseph  consoled  her  with 
assurance  that  such  work  was  healthy:  she  condemned  the 
flat  with  ever-new  bitterness,  and  continued  desperately  to 
envy  her  brother  an  imaginary  freedom  of  action. 

"Freedom,"  said  Joseph  one  morning,  "is  servility  to  a 
thousand  masters." 

Susan  did  not  appreciate  that.  Anything  was  better  than 
being  kept  at  home. 

"Joe,  you  don't  realise  the  horror  of  doing  the  same 
things  every  day.  The  washing  of  dishes,  the  hideous  bed- 
making  and  tidying  and  mending.  It's  the  sameness  of 
everything !" 

Joseph's  keen  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  delicate  face, 
and  the  curly  hair  and  slender  body  that  he  could  see  across 

49 


50  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

the  breakfast-table.  She  never  realised  that  she  was  selfish. 
It  was  not  selfishness  of  nature,  but  a  nervous  reaction  and 
an  excess  of  leisure  that  made  her  so  often  complain. 

"It's  these  horrible  women,"  he  said.  "They're  spoiling 
you." 

"I'm  a  drudge,"  she  persisted.  "You  recognise  that  I 
haven't  had  a  fair  chance."  Her  eyes  were  so  entirely  hon- 
est, and  so  pretty  in  their  amiable  despair,  that  Amberley 
would  have  been  moved  if  he  had  not  been  Susan's  brother. 

"You're  a  silly  little  creature,"  he  said.    "And  spoilt." 

"Joe,  dear.  I  know  you're  splendid."  She  spoke  without 
irony.  "But  haven't  I  been  wasted!"  It  was  an  appeal  to 
his  better  nature. 

"Susan  Amberley ;  you're  a  fortunate  young  person.  You 
have  never  wanted  for  a  meal;  you  do  very  much  as  you 
like ;  you  have  a  kind  brother ;  you're  not  overworked ;  you 
have  more  leisure,  more  privacy,  freedom,  privilege,  peace, 
plenty " 

"Joe!" 

"It's  all  true.  When  I  get  to  the  office  I  never  know 
when  I  shall  be  able  to  leave.  Ten  thousand  details  beset 
me.  Ten  million  people  may  worry  me  by  walking  in,  or 
telephoning,  or  writing.  If  I  make  one  mistake  in  a  month 
I'm  rowed  into  a  violent  temper.  Why,  my  dear,  you've 
no  notion  of  the  toil  of  my  days." 

"It  doesn't  make  my  day  any  happier." 

"Did  you  go  to  Kew  last  Sunday?  Did  you  go  to  twenty- 
three  theatres  in  the  spring?  Did  you  have  a  new  hat  last 
month  ?  Have  you  got  a  new  Mudie  book  whenever  you 
want  one?  Are  you  going  to  have  a  winter  coat  in  a  few 
days  ?    Why,  you're  pampered  !" 

"I  said  you  were  splendid." 

"But  the  point  isn't  my  splendour:  it's  your  round  of 
pleasant  delights.  Half  the  men  in  London  would  envy 
you.  When  did  I  have  my  last  hat,  when  am  I  going  to 
have  an  overcoat,  when  do  I  go  to  the  theatre?  I  go  with 
you,  or  not  at  all." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  51 

"D'you  mind  going  with  me?"  It  was  sudden,  persist- 
ent, as  though  a  hated  fear  was  resurrected. 

"Susan !  Don't  be  a  young  fool.  You're  a  good,  willing 
girl ;  and  pretty ;  and  a  dear.    But  you've  got  bats !" 

Amberley  looked  like  an  owl;  and  the  discussion  fell. 
Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders.    He  just  didn't  understand. 

"But  I  do!"  he  objected,  easily  reading  her  thought. 
"I'm  only  begging  you  to  be  less  absurdly  one-sided.  Why 
not  try?"  It  stung  her  at  last  to  a  retort  from  a  mouth 
almost  closed,  so  that  the  vehemence  of  her  words  was  in- 
creased into  bitterness. 

"You're  so  jolly  well  sure  that  you  know  what's  best  for 
me!" 

They  looked  at  one  another  across  the  breakfast-table, 
Joseph  quite  cool  and  unruffled,  but  really  hurt,  Susan  with 
the  colour  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks.  He  said  noth- 
ing. Presently  he  dropped  his  eyes,  and  went  on  with  his 
breakfast. 

It  was  when  he  was  going  that  Susan,  not  looking  at 
him,  apologised. 

"I'm  not  angry,"  he  said.  "What  you  said  was  perfectly 
true.  I  do  want  to  manage.  I  try  not  to ;  but  you  must  re- 
member that  you're  a  bit  provoking.  You  can't  do  what 
you  want:  nor  can  I.  You  ought  to  have  been  born  in  a 
rich  family;  or  you  ought  to  be  a  little  younger.  I  can't 
spank  you ;  and  I  can't  give  you  what  you  want.  But  you 
know  you're  as  fractious  as  a  child." 

"Only  to  you,"  she  pleaded.  His  look  of  indignation  as 
he  kissed  her  was  sufficient  sign  of  forgiveness.  It  softened 
her  heart  for  an  hour,  until  her  mother  rang  imperiously 
for  assistance  in  dressing. 

II 

"Only  to  you,"  muttered  Amberley  as  he  went  forth  and 
made  for  that  tramcar  which  ran  down  Holloway  Road, 
and  through  dreariest  Caledonian  Road,  to  King's  Cross 


52  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

and  Holborn.  It  amused  him  that  Susan  should  be  so 
naive.  He  knew  that  she  was  only  twenty,  and  that  she 
was  as  nice  a  girl  as  he  could  ever  expect  to  meet,  but  it 
struck  him  that  he  was  something  of  a  scapegoat  in  her 
eyes.  She  wanted  to  travel  wide  over  the  earth's  surface; 
she  wanted  (or  had  at  various  times  wanted)  to  be  an 
artist,  a  school-teacher,  and  a  woman  of  independence ;  and 
to  her  every  ambition  she  brought  the  same  provoking  timid 
assurance,  divorced  altogether  from  any  natural  aptitude. 
Amberley  thought  her  a  good  little  girl  with  her  position  in 
life  already  foreshadowed  by  her  limitations :  she  would  be 
a  charming  little  mother-bird  in  the  nest  of  an  estimable 
young  man — the  very  example  of  the  "dear  little  woman" 
of  legend.  He  knew  very  well  that  reflection  (unless  it  be 
of  others)  was  not  her  strong  point.  But  she  had  now 
been  crammed  with  a  sense  of  her  own  importance.  It  was 
a  symptom  of  her  futility  that  she  complained.  She  didn't 
do  even  that  very  intelligently,  he  thought,  smiling. 

The  crux  of  the  difficulty  in  the  Amberley  home  was  that 
there  were  only  three  of  them.  Mrs.  Amberley  had  been 
a  Vere  de  Vere  of  some  sort,  and  had  her  head  full  of 
vanities.  Her  daughter  (owing  to  the  family  poverty)  had 
to  do  all  the  light  work  of  the  flat.  She  thus  had  about 
nine  hours  a  day  in  which  there  was  nothing  to  do.  These 
nine  hours  were  hours  for  irritable  musing.  Mrs.  Amber- 
ley talked  in  an  affected  way ;  Susan  read  books,  but  had 
no  useful  occupation.  She  made  impossible  plans.  Why 
should  she  not  travel,  meet  people,  have  circles  of  intel- 
lectual, artistic,  idealist  friends,  go  hither  and  thither 
among  pretty  and  even  beautiful  things,  see  Egypt  and 
France  and  Spain  and  Japan?  Why  should  she  stay  for 
ever  at  home? 

The  unfortunate  thing  was,  that  her  brother  agreed  with 
her.  She  did  not  understand  that  her  complaints  meant 
more  to  him  than  they  meant  to  herself.  They  were  sin- 
cere, but  they  were  the  fruits  of  a  happy,  idle  mind,  which 
was  so  fundamentally  sweet  and  modest  that  it  complained 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  53 

without  expectation  of  cure.  To  Amberley,  however,  the 
complaints  centred  in  one  place — the  lack  of  complete  in- 
dependence. They  could  have  afforded  a  servant  if  Susan 
earned  her  own  living;  but  Mrs.  Amberley  thought  earn- 
ing one's  living  was  ungenteel.  Mrs.  Amberley  was  a  black- 
satin  lady  with  gold  brooch  and  ringed  hands,  and  eyes  al- 
most as  frigid  as  those  of  a  stuffed  animal.  So  Susan 
stayed  at  home,  and  loved  her  brother,  and  worried  him 
with  her  frustrated  desires  for  a  wider  life,  and  chafed 
with  a  sense  of  her  own  stultification,  and  remained  as 
charming  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  be  in  the  circum- 
stances. And  Amberley  travelled  by  tram  to  the  office,  or 
sometimes  by  the  red  motor-omnibus  from  Highbury  which 
he  and  Susan  had  caught  after  the  evening  at  Great  James 
Street,  and  wondered  what  Susan  would  do  if  she  really 
had  any  cause  for  complaint,  and  why  she  couldn't  follow 
his  own  utilitarian  advice  for  making  the  best  of  things  and 
thereby  gathering  power  to  change  them.  If  Susan  had 
been  a  philosopher,  as  he  was,  she  would  not  have  thought 
that  making  the  best  of  things  was  acceptance  of  one's  low- 
est fate.  She  would  have  seen  that  it  was  a  matter  of  con- 
serving marvellous  energies.  But  she  was  not  a  philoso- 
pher: Joseph  Amberley  was  the  only  philosopher  in  that 
family. 

Ill 

Amberley  was  twenty-seven,  and  was  just  under  six  feet 
in  height.  He  had  black  hair,  a  rather  thin  nose,  eyes  that 
nobody  had  ever  been  able  to  read,  and  a  solemn  mouth  that 
portended  mischief.  He  was  neither  handsome  nor  dis- 
tinguished in  appearance,  but  he  carried  himself  with  reso- 
lution. He  could  talk  to  anybody  as  an  equal,  and  he  did, 
which  made  some  of  his  associates  think  him  impertinent, 
but  which  made  none  of  them  think  him  condescending. 
They  thought  him  hard  and  shrewd,  or  curious  and  comical, 
or  a  dark  horse.    He  thought  himself  none  of  these  things : 


54  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

he  thought  himself  simple  and  averse  from  self-deception. 
He  never  sought  to  impose  himself  upon  others :  he  tried 
always  to  act  naturally  and  to  keep  his  inner  self  remote 
and  contemplative.  He  was  also  prompt  to  act  and  capable 
of  waiting  long.  He  disliked  displays  of  emotion,  and  tried 
always  to  keep  cool  and  not  to  lose  his  head.  That  was  his 
constant  endeavour. 

Yet  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  queer  thrill  when,  as  he 
walked  up  Theobald's  Road  from  the  tram,  he  caught  sight 
of  Barbara  Gretton  crossing  the  road.  As  he  reached  the 
corner  of  Great  James  Street  he  turned  and  watched  her 
tall  figure  along  near  the  further  end  of  Bedford  Row — 
that  short,  wide,  Dickensian  street  of  high  flat  houses  and 
projecting  doorsteps  and  area-railings. 

"H'm.  She's  late,"  was  all  he  said  as  Barbara  disap- 
peared. Then  he.  went  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  saw 
young  Hackett  waiting  for  him  on  the  doorstep. 

"Morn',  sir!"  said  Hackett. 

Hackett  wore  one  of  those  very  shallow,  narrow-rimmed 
bowler  hats  that  used  to  be  called  "O.B.'s" — because  cheap 
vendors  of  such  hats  provided  them  to  suit  the  pockets  and 
pretensions  of  office-boys.  He  never  quite  succeeded  in  cov- 
ering the  washable  area  visible  above  his  clean  collar;  and 
his  hair  at  the  temples  was  always  a  little  matted,  through 
fear  of  the  towel.  Amberley  had  an  idea  that  Hackett 
brushed  his  hair  before  washing ;  but  he  never  knew  if  that 
was  actually  the  case.  Hackett's  face  was  rather  white,  and 
his  eyes  were  a  very  pale  grey :  his  nose  was  a  seeming 
accident,  and  did  not  for  a  moment  compare  in  size  with 
his  mouth.  He  was  the  most  important  person  in  the  office : 
he  was  sixteen. 

They  went  together  into  the  office,  and  opened  the  win- 
dows. Hackett  sat  at  his  desk  and  began  with  his  knife  to 
shape  a  goose-quill,  in  the  management  of  which  he  was  as- 
tonishingly expert.  His  hat  was  hung  on  a  peg,  where  it 
still  wobbled  ostentatiously,  showing  a  bright  little  feather 
stuck  in  the  band.    His  cuffs  were  stood  upon  the  desk  un- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  55 

til  such  time  as  he  could  swathe  them  in  paper  to  prevent 
the  accretion  of  dirt. 

"Spurs  won  Sat'day,"  he  remarked.  "Wasn't  arf  a  good 
game.  Three  fellers  carried  off.  Spurs  only  had  eight  men 
on  the  field  the  last  ten  minutes.  We  all  waited  for  the 
other  lot,  an'  shouted,  'Urgh,  dirty  play !'  They  didn't  like 
it  a  little  bit.  Spurs  won  three  to  nothing.  They'd  a  got 
another  but  for  off-side.  Ref  didn't  understand  the  off-side 
rule.    We  told  him." 

"How  many  of  you  were  there?"  asked  Amberley. 

"Er  .  .  .  'bout  forty  thousand." 

"Poor  ref!" 

"Well,  look  here.  .  .  .  Toddles  was  here.  .  .  .  I'll  show 
you.    Make  a  plan  of  it." 

Before  he  could  do  that,  one  of  the  partners  walked  in, 
and  called  out  "Boy!"  as  he  walked  through.  Hackett 
stood  at  attention,  with  his  elbows  out.  "Yessir.  .  .  .  Yes- 
sir.  .  .  .  Very  good,  sir  .  .  .  yessir,"  he  said ;  and  clicked 
his  heels.    On  his  return : 

"Oh  ...  ay  gotter  go  an'  see  my  pal  the  Duke  of  Pim- 
lico,  at  the  Hotel  Victoria,"  he  said.  "Gis  me  cabfare, 
sonny."  Amberley  handed  him  twopence.  "So-long.  Tell 
you  about  the  Spurs  when  I  git  back." 

He  flung  on  his  cuffs  and  his  little  hat,  and  dived  out  of 
the  office.  The  twopence  was  a  godsend  to  him.  Amber- 
ley knew  very  well  that  the  boy  would  walk  and  run  all  the 
way  there  and  back,  and  that  his  fares  would  be  used  for 
the  purchase  of  lunch  or  cigarettes.  He  went  preparing  his 
notes  for  a  draft  agreement.  The  office  sank  to  a  quiet 
business-like  air  of  discreet  calm,  and  Hackett's  long  ab- 
sence was  almost  a  relief.  Above,  Adrian  Velancourt  was 
agitatedly  walking  up  and  down.  Higher  up,  on  the  second 
floor,  the  lonely  and  mysterious  Mr.  Jeffery  was  sitting 
reading.  At  the  top  of  the  house  Mrs.  Gretton  was  pre- 
paring lunch  for  Barbara  and  Mr.  Gretton,  while  Herculea, 
her  aged  char-lady,  was  "doing"  the  bedrooms.  Amberley 
was  hoping  he  might  happen  to  be  leaving  for  his  own  lunch 


56  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

just  as  Barbara  entered,  so  that  he  could  speak  to  her  in 
passing,  as  he  knew  the  ships  are  said  to  do.  The  staircase, 
their  highroad,  was  empty;  they  were  shut  off  from  one 
another,  preoccupied  with  their  own  concerns. 

.    IV 

As  Amberley  went  out  to  lunch  he  met  Barbara  upon 
the  doorstep.  To  his  surprise  she  stopped  and  spoke  to 
him. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Amberley.  Do  you  think  it  would 
be  all  right  if  mother  and  I  came  this  evening?"  Her  pride 
would  not  allow  her  to  be  more  explicit.  Their  eyes,  on  a 
level,  so  tall  Barbara  seemed,  met  sternly. 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  quite  all  right,"  returned  Amber- 
ley, concealing  exultation.    "We  shall  be  very  glad." 

"Your  sister  will  be  at  home?" 

"And  my  mother."  He  did  not  dare  to  add :  "And  my- 
self." 

Her  antipathetic  feeling  was  unmistakable.  She  left  him, 
and  he  went  off  to  send  a  telegram  to  Susan,  conveying  the 
news.  Then  he  went  to  his  lunch  in  the  smoking-room  of 
the  nearest  Tarratonga  Tea  Shop,  and  watched  idiotic 
young  men  playing  dominoes  and  draughts,  and  at  one  table 
a  crowd  round  two  chess-players.  All  the  time  he  was 
thinking  of  Barbara,  with  a  grim  half-smile  upon  his 
mouth.    His  mind  reverted  to  Susan. 

"You  can  see  the  difference,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
"Susan  hangs  back :  she  goes  forward.  She's  a  dangerous 
woman" — his  smile  brimmed  over  at  this — "and  wants  a 
good  deal  of  watching.  She  may  do  Susie  harm:  I  think, 
nothing  but  good.  I  wonder  what  she'll  think  of  mother. 
I  wonder  what  mother  will  think  of  her.  One  thing,  Mrs. 
Gretton  will  be  there." 

He  did  not  remember  ever  having  looked  forward  to  any- 
thing as  he  was  looking  forward  to  that  evening.  It  was 
an  occasion.     It  represented  the  apex  of  his   immediate 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  57 

range  of  hopes.  The  achievement  of  Barbara  herself  lay 
quite  distinct  in  his  mind,  as  an  aim,  but  only  as  the  mating 
of  his  opponent's  king  lay  in  the  mind  of  each  of  the  chess- 
players across  the  room.  The  intermediate  stages  of  the 
game  depended  so  much  upon  the  intervening  situations — 
the  way  the  game  shaped,  the  openings  that  offered,  the 
thousand  chances  and  complexities  of  the  comedy,  the 
pieces  in  which  had  their  characteristic,  limited  moves  just 
as  the  chess-men  had.  The  difference  lay  in  the  fact  that 
the  moves  of  the  chess-men  were  limited  in  the  eyes  of  all: 
the  human  beings  had  their  moves  limited  and  allowed  by 
inscrutable  natural  forces.  They  were  beyond  his  control: 
he  was  himself  one  of  the  human  pieces.  His  own  limita- 
tions were  undefined :  how  much  more  so  the  mysterious 
activities  of  a  nature  which  attracted  him  by  its  strength 
and  unguessable  power  to  transcend  limitations !  He  had 
said  to  Susan  that  Barbara  was  herself ;  but  that  definition 
was  of  no  use  in  his  present  thoughts.  He  was  searching 
for  her,  as  the  lover  in  Browning's  poem  sought — "This 
time,  herself — not  the  trouble  behind  her."  The  trouble, 
indeed,  surrounded  her.  He  was  not  near  enough.  Therein 
lay  the  splendid  chances  of  the  game,  the  inexpressible  pos- 
sibilities of  all  those  intricacies  the  prospect  of  which  made 
Barbara,  more  than  any  girl  he  had  ever  known,  worth  all 
the  effort  that  his  own  nature  might  enable  him  to  exercise. 

Amberley  ate  his  meagre  lunch  in  a  mood  of  exultation. 
To-night,  he  felt,  he  should  approach  herself  more  nearly, 
more  simply,  than  ever  before.  To-night  the  battle  would 
really  be  joined.  He  thrilled ;  he  grinned ;  he  felt  the  ex- 
citement of  onset.  Susan  faded.  Barbara  rose  dark,  reso- 
lute, magnificent.  The  comic  spirit  was  abroad.  He  fore- 
saw with  extraordinary  vision  the  meeting  of  Mrs.  Amber- 
ley  and  Mrs.  Gretton;  Susan  and  Barbara;  Mrs.  Gretton 
and  himself ;  himself  and  .  .  .  Barbara ! 

"It'll  really  be  a  most  terrific  lark !"  exclaimed  Amberley. 


CHAPTER   VII 
AMBERLEY'S  FRIENDS   ARE   INDISCREET 


AND  a  lark  it  proved — to  Amberley.  When  he  reached 
home  he  found  Susan  in  a  fever,  and  his  mother  in 
her  room,  dressing. 

"Why  does  she  always  dress?"  he  asked  Susan,  in  a 
grumbling  voice. 

"To  impress  people." 

"But  her  dresses  are  all  alike." 

"Not  a  bit.  There's  Kitty  with  the  black  lace;  and 
Emmy  with  the  black  silk  cord  edging;  and  Mabel  with 
the  black  silk  slashings;  and  Amelia  with  the  pure  black 
satin;  and  Hertha  with  the  black  tulle  front— they're  only 
alike  in  blackness,  my  dear.    They're  all  ladylike." 

"Or  lady's  maid-like?  You're  a  horrible  little  creature  to 
talk  so." 

"Joe — I  hate  black!  There  are  some  people  it  suits: 
mother  only  looks  monotonous.  She's  so  exasperating  with 
it!  They're  all  old-fashioned,  as  though  she  was  some- 
body's housekeeper !    She  glories  in  them.    Oh !" 

Susan's  shuddering  anger  only  made  him  laugh. 

"Susan!"  With  a  moue,  she  ran  to  her  mother's  room 
at  the  call  of  horrid  duty. 

Amberley  went  to  the  fireplace.  He  began  to  feel  a 
dread.  He  hoped  his  mother  was  not  going  to  be  on  her 
dignity.  It  always  made  her  so  ill-bred — what  Susan  called 
"ladylike."     She  would  freeze  and  kill  the  very  ghost  of 

58 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  59 

happiness  that  evening  unless  she  remained  true  to  her  best 
self.  What  that  best  was  Joseph  alone  knew :  Mrs.  Am- 
berley  no  more  understood  it  than  she  understood  the  art  of 
costume.  He  hoped  and  hoped  with  all  his  energy  that  his 
confidence  in  Mrs.  Gretton  was  not  misplaced.  He  hoped, 
in  fact,  that  she  would  rise  to  the  occasion,  and  draw  his 
mother  into  the  circle.  For  Mrs.  Amberley  self-consciously 
drew  apart  from  gatherings,  and  posed  with  her  heavy 
white  lids  drooping,  as  though  she  sat  for  her  portrait  as 
a  Martyr.  It  seemed  to  him  almost  farcical  in  its  dreadful 
danger.    If  only  she  would  not  play  the  refined  bourgeoise! 

Soon  she  came,  black  and  shining,  bent  on  being  a  figure 
of  dignity. 

"You  do  look  jolly,  mother!"  he  said,  greeting  her. 

Mrs.  Amberley  shot  him  a  quick  look  from  her  frigid 
eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  that  surprises  you,  Joseph,"  she  observed. 

"Not  as  much  as  your  modesty  leads  you  to  suppose," 
Joseph  insisted  gracefully. 

"Susan  appears  to  be  of  a  different  opinion" — she  paused, 
searching  among  her  prepositions — "from  yourself.  She 
says  I  look  like  a  gnome  or  a  beetle." 

"Susan  quite  clearly  has  a  juvenile  taste  in  such  matters. 
She  favours  the  secondary  colours.  She  is,  one  might  say, 
lacking  in  reposeful  dignity." 

Mrs.  Amberley  had  endured  her  daughter's  protests  on 
too  many  occasions  to  be  moved  by  them ;  but  she  was  too 
shrewd,  for  all  her  superficial  vanity,  not  to  feel  nervous 
of  Joseph's  opinion,  and  of  the  opinion  of  Joseph's  friends. 
She  smiled— still  a  little  frigid,  but  softened  wonderfully 
by  his  mendacities,  and  already  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  Mrs. 
Gretton. 

"Mrs.  Gretton  will  understand  my  position,"  she  asserted. 

"I  hope  you'll  like  her,"  he  artfully  contrived  to  suggest. 
"She's  fundamentally  sound.  You'll  find  her  quite  homely. 
.  .  ."    He  was  afraid  he'd  gone  too  far. 


60  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"No  doubt  I  shall  be  able  .  .  ."  began  his  mother,  on  her 
dignity. 

"Sure  to,  sure  to,"  he  agreed. 

"If  you  two  don't  come  and  have  your  dinners!"  cried 
Susan,  bored  with  a  game  she  never  understood. 

Joseph  warned  her  by  a  glance.  He  was  not  going  to 
have  his  wonderful  diplomacy  spoiled  by  this  chit  of  a  girl. 

"I  hope,  Joseph,"  said  Mrs.  Amberley,  "that  our  visitors 
know  they  are  coming  to  a  greatly  reduced  home." 

"Whatever  their  expectations,  they  will  not  be  disap- 
pointed," said  Joseph,  suavely. 

"It's  such  a  lot  of  rubbish !"  said  Susan. 


II 

Joseph  Amberley  sat  at  the  dinner-table  in  a  sort  of 
whimsical  high  spirits.  He  could  do  as  he  liked  with  many 
people,  and  he  could  do  a  great  deal  with  his  mother.  He 
hated  her  black  clothes  as  much  as  Susan  did;  but  his 
humorous  eye  was  large  enough  to  embrace  all  sorts  of 
futilities.  Susan,  with  a  sense  of  humour  strictly  limited 
by  her  sex,  thought  his  nonsense  boring:  his  mother,  im- 
pervious to  most  things,  only  half  perceived  that  it  was 
nonsense  at  all.  That  was  Amberley's  opportunity.  Thus 
was  he  able  to  combat  her  implacable  egomania.  She  was, 
he  knew,  an  egomaniac.  Susan  could  do  nothing  with  her : 
the  two  lived  drily  at  home  without  communion — in  two 
stages  of  the  same  destructive  disease.  Only  Amberley, 
philosopher,  perceived  that  his  apostolic  labours  in  the  di- 
rection of  universal  "charity"  must  begin  at  home.  His 
mother  was  his  victim,  his  tool,  the  domestic  subject  of  his 
insidious  studies  in  morbid  psychology. 

"If  I  get  home  at  quarter  to  seven,"  he  observed,  "and 
we  eat  a  slow  dinner,  the  Grettons  will  find  us  with  our 
mouths  full." 

Susan  instantly  choked  in  an  attempt  to  finish  at  once. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  61 

"Susan!    You're  very  un " 

"I  know.  I'm  very  sorry,  mother.  Joe  put  me  in  a 
panic." 

They  completed  the  meal  expeditiously;  and  it  was 
cleared  away.  Joseph  then' showed  himself  of  all  men  one 
of  the  most  truly  noble.  Voluntarily,  he  helped  Susan  to 
wash  the  dishes !  He  was  as  "thorough"  as  Guy  Living- 
stone, and  could  be  trusted  either  to  wash  or  to  dry  effi- 
ciently. So,  to  save  Susan's  hands  from  being  pink  and 
boiled-looking,  he  washed :  and  Susan  was  thrown  into  ex- 
traordinary good-humour  by  the  amusingness  of  his  per- 
formance, so  that  her  cheeks  glowed  and  her  eyes  shone. 
When  there  came  a  knock  at  the  front  door  she  ran  to  open 
it  with  her  spirits  and  looks  equally  radiant.  Barbara  and 
Mrs.  Gretton  were  there. 

Joseph,  still  arranging  the  dishes  on  the  dresser,  after 
dabbing  away  at  the  scullery  sink  with  the  sink  brush,  was 
not  visible  for  the  moment.  He  stayed  in  the  kitchen 
chuckling  at  the  imagined  picture  of  all  that  happened. 
Susan  took  the  visitors  first  to  her  bedroom,  so  that  their 
out-of-door  clothes  might  be  laid  out  after  the  manner  of 
two  interesting  corpses;  she  then,  with  anguished  trepida- 
tion, introduced  them  to  her  mother,  and  longed  for  Joseph 
to  come  to  their  rescue.  She  was  nervous  and  ill  at  ease 
without  him.  But  Barbara  sat  down  and  began  to  talk, 
and  Mrs.  Gretton  positively  enveloped  Mrs.  Amberley  .  .  . 
so  that  when  the  real  martyr  of  the  situation,  having  emptied 
the  dish-water,  and  swabbed  the  kitchen  table,  and  having 
seen  with  disgust  the  havoc  wrought  upon  his  own  hands, 
appeared  at  the  door,  nobody  took  any  notice  of  him. 

"Most  interesting,"  Mrs.  Amberley  was  saying.  "I  had 
to  take  Joseph  from  school  after  his  father's  death.  It  was 
a  sad  blow  to  us,  because  my  husband,  although  a  man  in 
good  position,  had  been  unable  to  make  as  great  provision 
for  me  as  he  had  wished." 

"You  marvel!"  thought  Joseph,  looking  at  Mrs.  Gretton 


62  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

with  beaming  eyes  of  gratitude.     "You're  the  Apotheosis 
of  Woman  Through  All  The  Ages !" 

It  was  Mrs.  Gretton  who  first  noticed  his  presence  in  the 
room. 

Ill 

"There's  Mr.  Amberley,"  she  said.  "How  d'you  do?" 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  Amberley  to  say:  I  hope  you're  satis- 
fied ?  He  was  more  than  satisfied :  he  was  almost  wonder- 
fully content.  Barbara  looked  aside  at  him,  and  bowed, 
but  continued  listening  to  Susan's  description  of  something, 
which  was  being  very  vivaciously  given.  "Oh,  you  have 
gas  here,"  Mrs.  Gretton  murmured  pleasantly  to  her  new 
acquaintance.  "You're  more  fortunate  than  we  are.  I 
have  a  gas-cooker.  .  .  ."  That  was  the  last  Amberley 
heard  for  some  time;  but  he  shook  his  head  in  rapture  over 
her  mastery  of  the  difficult  arts.  He  and  Susan  exchanged 
a  glance,  and  he  wandered  over  to  where  he  might  sit  un- 
observed. How  wonderful  Barbara  looked !  She  was  un- 
bent to  Susan,  listening,  and  watching  the  vivacious  lips 
that  seemed  to  make  Susan's  speech  so  clear  and  childlike. 
Susan  always  smiled  as  she  spoke,  and  used  her  lips  in  the 
prettiest  breathless  way,  speaking  very  quickly.  Amberley 
could  see  Barbara  smiling  in  sympathy,  and  her  manner 
softened,  as  though  she  was  a  little  bewitched.  He  heard 
Susan's  tiny  delighted  laugh.  It  was  so  different  from  her 
morning  manner. 

"Little  hypocrite!"  he  thought,  superficially,  correcting 
himself  after  a  moment,  as  the  complete  sincerity  of  her 
manner  convinced  him.  It  would  be  hard  indeed  if  Susan 
were  never  allowed  a  change  of  mood !  He  speculated  on 
the  degree  in  which  individuals  influenced  each  other.  There 
was  a  sureness  about  Barbara,  an  ability  to  listen,  that 
charmed  him.  He  knew  it  showed  personality.  He  could 
listen  himself.  A  slow  smile  spread  over  his  face,  quite 
serious,  born  of  his  pleasure  in  the  scene  before  him.    Sud- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  63 

denly  Barbara  looked  quickly  at  him,  and  away  again. 
Susan  had  mentioned  his  name. 

"He's  so  absurd,"  he  heard  her  say.  "It's  such  effron- 
tery to  pretend  to  know  things  of  that  sort!"  Then  her 
voice  fell  again,  and  he  could  hear  nothing  more.  What  he 
had  pretended  to  know  did  not  reach  him :  he  had  no  doubt 
that  it  was  something  he  understood  better  than  Sue.  Well, 
it  was  very  difficult  to  persuade  her  that  he  knew ;  because 
she  never  could  grasp  any  point  of  view  but  her  own.  It 
was  impossible  to  prove  that  his  view  embraced  or  rejected 
hers.  The  tyro  can  never  appreciate  expert  criticism  of 
her  own  ideas :  if  she  could,  she  would  be  an  expert  critic. 
Sue  could  never  realise  that  he  had  the  power  of  artistic 
detachment,  and  she  thought  his  judgment  as  purely  instinc- 
tive and  as  unreflecting  as  her  own.  That  was  why  she 
rebelled  against  his  inexorable  logic.  Logic  was  outside  her 
mental  grasp :   it  was  not  beyond  Barbara,  he  believed. 

In  point  of  fact  Barbara,  having  a  very  cool  judgment, 
had  seen  and  preferred  Amberley's  judgment  in  this  case; 
but  she  would  not  admit  that  even  to  herself,  because  of  her 
natural  hostility  to  him. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  oracularly;  "men  are  still  medie- 
val." 

"And  women,"  thought  Amberley,  "are  still  tiresome." 
He  excepted  Mrs.  Gretton. 

".  .  .  mires  your  mother  so  much,"  floated  Susan's  voice. 
"It's  too  ridiculous;  but  he  says  .  .  .  course,  it's  nice  .  .  ." 
He  saw  Barbara  looking  a  little  indignant.  He  hoped  Sue 
wasn't  repeating  all  the  truths  he  had  betrayed  to  her.  "I 
wish  so  much,"  she  was  saying  emphatically,  "that  I  could 
do  something  really  good.  Joe  says  my  painting  ...  I 
should  so  like  to  show  you  .  .  ." 

Barbara  made  some  remark,  and  Susan  rose  to  get  some- 
thing. As  she  went  out  of  the  room  Amberley  took  her 
place  for  a  moment. 

"You  found  us  quite  easily?"  he  said.    "I'm  so  glad  you 


64  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

persuaded  Mrs.  Gretton.  You  see  my  mother's  entirely  en- 
grossed." 

"Yes  .  .  .  quite  easily,"  Barbara  said,  coolly.  "Your 
sister's  going  to  show  me  her  drawings." 

"She's  had  very  few  lessons.  But  she's  got  a  nice  feeling. 
I  want  you  to  hear  her  sing.  She  sings  really  very  well 
indeed." 

There  was  no  constraint  between  them,  but  there  was  no 
great  ease  of  conversation. 

"I  hope  she  will,"  Barbara  said. 

"If  you'd  ask  her  ?    I  don't  like  to  seem  to  parade  her." 

"I  should  have  thought  it  would  please  you." 

"To  hurt  her?"    He  was  really  wounded. 

"To  tease  her." 

"That's  unjust.    I  never  maliciously  tease." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  that's  true,"  Barbara  said.  She  looked 
away  from  him  in  speaking. 

"You  must  remember  that  you're  hearing  at  second- 
hand," he  urged.  "And  from  one  whose  creative  humour 
is  very  inferior." 

"Creative  humour — in  repetition?"  asked  Barbara,  dis- 
daining to  misunderstand  him. 

"Say  interpretative."  He  grinned  broadly  at  her  retort 
and  his  own  extrication. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  it  actually  concerns  me,"  she  said, 
rather  rudely.     "But  you  challenged  me." 

"I  should  prefer  you  to  suspend  judgment." 

"Oh,  judgment — really !"  She  implied  that  he  was  taking 
her  interest  for  granted. 

"Certainly.  We're  all  judging  all  the  time.  Some  people 
sum  up  more  precipitately  than  others.  I'm  afraid  you've 
directed  the  verdict  wrong."    Barbara  smiled  faintly. 

"But  you  can't  be  unbiased — if  you're  the  defendant." 

"Is  it  really  so  bad  as  that?"  She  laughed  outright  at 
the  sudden  inquiry.  She  liked  him  in  this  mood.  She  was 
trying  hard  to  dislike  him  still. 

"At  any  rate,  I'm  not  the  defendant,"  she  asserted,  sud- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  65 

denly  realising  that  he  was  getting  the  better  of  her.  What 
business  had  he  to  question  her  as  to  her  opinions?  She 
wasn't  in  the  least  interested  in  his  character :  anecdotes 
in  which  his  opinions  had  been  quoted  were  no  concern  of 
hers.  Why  should  she  be  bothered?  She  did  not  want  to 
know  anything  about  him. 

"No.  You're  the  Judge,"  he  said.  "I  am  producing  the 
case  for  the  defence." 

"But  really — it's  not  in  my  court." 

"Then  you're  simply  the  recipient  of  scandalous  tales. 
You  don't  value  justice?    You're  content  with  rumour?" 

"On  affidavit,"  she  said.  He  could  not  help  being  amused 
by  her  persistence  in  the  use  of  legal  figure.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  she  betrayed  the  weakness  of  the  woman-novelist, 
in  simulating  a  knowledge  of  terms  that  she  did  not  really 
understand.  It  was  like  carrying  artificial  cherries  to 
Covent  Garden.  On  legal  matters  his  own  knowledge  would 
certainly  be  better  than  hers.  He  wondered  if  there  was  a 
subtle  intention  of  talking  him  down.  He  could  not  sup- 
pose her  so  unmannerly,  or  indeed  so  weak,  as  to  desire  to 
hurt  or  to  give  herself  so  heavy  a  handicap.  Barbara  looked 
round  for  Susan. 

"Here  she  is,"  Amberley  said.  He  made  room  for  his 
sister,  who  linked  her  arm  in  his  as  she  bent  over  Barbara 
and  the  sketches.  Barbara  rebelled  against  the  indubitable 
justice  of  Amberley's  criticism.  If  she  had  been  left  un- 
prejudiced she  would  have  said  there  was  a  nice  feeling 
shown  in  the  drawings.  She  could  not  say  that  now  with- 
out appearing  to  derive  from  him. 

"They're  awfully  pretty,"  she  said.  It  then  struck  her 
how  impossible  it  would  be  to  look  at  Amberley  after  saying 
that.  She  could  feel  the  expression  in  his  eyes — unreadable, 
with  a  very  quiet  shrewd  smile  lying  far  in  their  depths. 
She  had  seen  it  in  their  talk,  and  had  suddenly  withdrawn 
her  own  glance.  "They're  really  very  pretty  indeed."  It 
seemed  horrible  to  feel  Susan's  eagerness,  and  the  dreadful 
understanding  in  Amberley's  whole  carriage.     There  shot 


66  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

across  her  mind  Harry's  home-thrust :  "Only  because  he's 
amused  at  you!"  He  was  amused.  Nobody  else  was:  in 
him  it  was  an  impertinence!  He  was  impertinent!  And 
then,  still  under  his  eye,  she  was  to  ask  Susan  to  sing !  It 
was  impossible! 

She  went  back  through  the  drawings  in  silence,  holding 
some  of  them  at  a  little  distance  to  cover  her  own  hesi- 
tancy. She  was  saying  to  herself:  "I  haven't  lost  my 
head !  Good  gracious,  I  can't  let  this  go  on !"  As  though 
she  were  bereft  of  sanity  she  began  again  at  the  first  pic- 
ture.   Susan  gently  took  them  from  her. 

"Oh,  not  a  third  time!"  cried  Susan,  and  her  voice 
seemed  like  Amberley's  to  Barbara,  into  whose  cheeks  there 
stole  a  faint  redness. 

"I  really  like  them  awfully,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  shouldn't  say  so!"  She  looked  angrily  up  at  Am- 
berley;  but  he  was  smiling  down  at  her  and  stopped  her 
speech. 

"Sue,"  he  said  gently.  "I  know  Barbara  is  very  anxious 
to  hear  you  sing." 

He  knew  also  that  the  use  of  her  Christian  name  was 
insufferable;  yet  he  had  said  it  without  intention — simply 
because  he  thought  of  her  so ;  and  he  could  not  now  with- 
draw without  conspicuous  particularity.  To  Barbara  the 
use  of  the  name  came  as  a  shock.  She  bit  her  lip  hard  and 
angrily. 


IV 

And  then  Susan  sang  "Batti  Batti"  in  her  pure  small 
tender  voice;  and  when  she  sang  "si,  si,  si,  si,  si,  si"  in 
that  descending  passage  Barbara  felt  that  somehow  Sue 
loved  Joseph  more  than  she  had  guessed.  For  he  was  ac- 
companying, and  Sue's  voice  seemed  to  caress  the  notes 
with  such  smiling  pleasure  that  they  showed  all  the  love  in 
her  heart.    It  was  Mrs.  Amberley  who  said : 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  67 

"That's  a  very  difficult  song  to  sing.  Sue  sings  it  very 
creditably  for  an  amateur." 

Barbara  glowered.  She  knew  that  the  song  was  Susan's, 
however  she  sang  it.  It  was  clear  that  she  was  not  a  per- 
fect vocalist :  what  was  clear  was  that  the  song,  even  sung 
in  a  room  to  a  pianoforte  accompaniment,  held  its  fragrance 
still.  And  Barbara  thought  that  a  greater  thing  than  vo- 
calisation. Which  it  is,  for  all  the  quasi-professional, 
R-rolling  people  in  the  world. 

"It  was  lovely,"  she  said.  "It  was  perfect."  She  did  not 
drawl  the  word  "lovely" :  she  meant  it  in  its  special  sense, 
and  not  its  rapturous  vulgarisation. 

Amberley  remained  at  the  piano,  playing  the  overture  to 
the  opera,  which  was  less  successful  than  "Batti  Batti,"  be- 
cause it  needed  the  orchestration.  Yet  Barbara  drew  a  little 
nearer. 

"You  sing,  Barbara?"  asked  Sue.  She  shook  her  head. 
"Really,  Mrs.  Gretton?"  pursued  the  inexorable  child. 

It  was  the  queerest  feeling  for  Barbara  to  hear  her 
mother  consulted. 

"She  never  has,"  said  Mrs.  Gretton.  Amberley  put  aside 
the  music. 

"Susan  is  very  anxious  indeed  to  get  the  supper,"  he  an- 
nounced. 
"Beast !" 

"And  I'll  help— if  I  may,"  struck  in  Barbara.  She  felt 
that  she  really  must  get  away  from  him  or  she  would 
scream.  She  felt  as  though  her  will  were  struggling  hard 
to  avoid  being  turned— as  though  it  were  brittle,  and  afraid 
to  meet  a  gale  lest  it  should  break.  And  his  will  was  like 
a  steady  pressing  wind  that  never  slackened,  that  pushed 
steadily  and  ever  more  resistlessly.  She  would  not  give  in. 
She  would  resist  until  the  end.  Once  they  were  away  it 
would  be  different.  He  was  so  unruffled,  and  unruffle-able 
that  she  was  at  a  loss.  One  couldn't  be  rude,  even  to  a  man 
who 

"Then  you  take  Miss  Gretton,  Sue.     Because  it's  half- 


68  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

past  nine,  and  we  don't  want  to  make  supper  the  climax  of 
the  evening."  Miss  Gretton !  He  was  afraid :  was  he 
afraid?  They  went  out  of  the  room  together — Susan  and 
Barbara. 

"Miss  Gretton !"  said  Sue.  "It  sounds  so  formal.  Did 
you  mind  my  calling  you  Barbara  so  quick  ?" 

"No,  no,  no." 

"I  thought  Joe  called  you  Barbara." 

"I  don't  see  why  he  should,"  said  Barbara  quietly,  with 
a  smile.  She  was  already  recovered  from  that  panic  fear 
of  a  moment  ago. 

"I  almost  think  that  doesn't  seem  always  somehow  to 
count  with  Joe,"  said  Susan,  with  a  very  roundabout 
naivete. 

Barbara  said  nothing.  Her  heart  was  steeled.  In  her 
ears  young  Harry's  taunt  hummed  with  fresh  insistence. 
"Only  because  he's  amused  at  you!"  Amused!  He  was 
amused ! 

"You  look  so  cross !"  said  Susan,  suddenly. 

"How  could  I  be  cross?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  Joe  made  you  feel  helpless.  He 
makes  me  feel  helpless." 

Barbara's  lip  curled. 

"Oh,  that's  perfectly  absurd!"  she  said.  "I  never  feel 
helpless." 


When  Barbara  and  her  mother  were  on  the  tram  going 
home  Barbara  had  plenty  to  think  of.  For  she  had  noticed 
the  warm  parting  between  Amberley  and  her  mother,  as 
though  they  were  good  friends ;  and  there  were  several  un- 
pleasant recurring  speeches  in  her  mind.  And  now  her 
mother  was  sitting  there,  jolting  when  the  tram  jolted,  and 
they  were  rushing  swiftly  through  Holloway,  through  dark 
streets  and  past  closed  shops.  Other  trams,  when  they 
passed,  seemed  to  roar  suddenly  by  with  a  dazzling  bril- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  69 

Hance  of  light.  And  Barbara  had  a  very  small,  pressing 
sense — no  greater  than  a  toothache  or  a  burn — of  chagrin 
and  bad  temper. 

Her  mother  was  eyeing  with  reproachful  anger  a  woman 
who  carried  a  sleepy  baby  in  her  arms  without  shielding  its 
eyes  from  the  light,  so  that  the  baby's  little  podgy  hands 
made  vain  startings  and  its  voice  uttered  faint  duckings  of 
incipient  uproar.  But  Mrs.  Gretton,  having  in  her  own 
mind  dismissed  that  particular  mother  to  a  home  where 
motherhood  might  be  taught,  turned  to  Barbara. 

"I'm  so  glad  we  went,"  she  said,  like  a  little  girl  coming 
from  a  party.  "I  liked  it.  I  think  Mrs.  Amberley  must 
have  had  a  sad  history ;  she  has  a  very  miserable  nature." 

"The  two  things  do  seem  to  go  together,"  said  Barbara, 
irritably. 

"Born  to  sorrow,"  murmured  Mrs.  Gretton.  "And  little 
Sue  is  very  sweet.  I'm  not  sure  that  her  mother  is  quite  a 
good  influence  for  her.  .  .  ." 

"You're  not  becoming  a  Socialist,  are  you  ?" 

"How,  dear?" 

"Taking  children  from  injudiciously  chosen  parents." 

"No,  dear.    I  think  Mr.  Joseph  is  a  very  good  influence." 

"Mother!  What  an  awful  name  for  him/  And  a 
parent !" 

"I  think  he's  a  very  fine  young  man,"  said  Mrs.  Gretton, 
peacefully.     "I  hope  that  he  and  Ernest  may  be  friends." 

The  prospect  petrified  Barbara.  It  was  not  merely  that 
Ernest  was  so  extraordinarily  brought  in :  the  idea  of  Er- 
nest had  never  seemed  to  arise.  Of  course,  Ernest.  .  .  . 
She  supposed  Mr.  Amberley  was  older  than  Ernest.  He 
was  twenty-seven,  to  Ernest's  twenty-five. 

"Oh,  but  they're  not  a  bit  alike,"  she  protested.  "I  think 
Sue's  a  charming  and  very  much  to  be  pitied  girl;  but  he's 
intolerable." 

"Why,  what  nonsense!"  said  Mrs.  Gretton  in  her  slow, 
happy  way. 

"He  makes  my  blood  boil." 


;o  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

For  once  in  a  way  Mrs.  Gretton  convinced  Barbara  of  her 
wisdom — or  rather,  of  that  strange  underworld  of  sensa- 
tion of  which  so  very  insignificant  a  portion  is  capable  of 
being  expressed  by  speech.  At  first  she  could  not  believe 
her  mother  had  spoken :  the  words  were  so  startling,  so 
horrible.  But  they  must  have  been  spoken  by  somebody, 
and  her  mother  must  have  been  the  speaker.  The  words 
fell  like  a  desolation  upon  her,  like  an  eclipse,  stifling  her. 

"He  makes  my  blood  boil." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Gretton.  "But  that's  only  because  you 
recognise  a  stronger  will  than  your  own." 

It  was  the  crowning  touch.  That  Amberley  was  abhor- 
rent to  her  she  was  convinced.  And  all  these  simpletons 
were  showing  her  why.  "Only  because  he's  amused  at 
you!"  Harry  had  said.  "1  thought  perhaps  Joe  made  you 
feel  helpless,"  Susan  had  said.  And  now,  worse  and  worse, 
making  her  whole  nature  rise  in  vehement  revolt,  was  her 
mother,  in  the  most  placid  way,  saying  the  thing  which 
capped  and  explained  those  others.  It  was  not  true.  It 
was  not  true.  None  of  these  people  had  any  proper  sense 
of  Barbara  Gretton,  proud,  unflinching.  .  .  .  Was  that 
Barbara  Gretton  a  legend?  Was  she  a  mere  consolidated 
vanity?  Barbara  despised  the  thought.  Her  proud  mouth 
curved  in  disdain;  her  eyelids  drooped  with  an  air  of  cool 
thought. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Gretton.  Really, 
it  was  too  bad !  Her  mother  was  provoking  to  the  verge  of 
the  snubbable.  To  mistake  inextinguishable  pride  for  debil- 
ity! 

"No,  dear:  only  thinking  of  my  own  obstinacy!"  Bar- 
bara said,  with  a  vicious  pleasure  in  wounding  herself.  Mrs. 
Gretton  laughed  a  little.  The  tram  went  rushing  on,  past 
Holloway  Prison,  and  passed  the  railway  bridge  over  the 
road,  past  the  canal.  ...  In  its  steady  end-to-end  pitch- 
ing and  the  jolting  of  the  wheels — Barbara  supposed — over 
the  joins  in  the  rails,  a  sort  of  insistent  rhythm  was  estab- 
lished.    People's  heads  bobbed  and  nodded,  and  the  con- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  71 

ductor  wetted  his  pencil,  and  Barbara's  memory  hurt  her, 
all  in  the  same  dreadful  rhythm.  "I  thought  perhaps  Joe 
.  .  .  because  you  recognise  a  stronger  will!" 

"Is  that  it !"  exclaimed  Barbara,  to  herself.  "Well,  'Mr. 
Joseph,'  we  shall  see.  Shan't  we  ?"  She  set  her  teeth.  It 
never  occurred  to  anybody  that  night  to  think:  "Poor 
Joseph  Amberley!"  But  a  strange  fever  of  indiscretion 
had  been  abroad  among  his  friends :  they  had  amiably, 
with  the  best  good-will  in  the  world,  sown  the  whirlwind 
on  his  behalf. 


V 


CHAPTER   VIII 
THE   BAFFLED   LOVER 


ELANCOURT  was  carried  upon  a  flood  of  enthusiasm 
when  once  more  he  was  alone,  and  when  Cissie  had 
gone.  He  lighted  the  lamp,  and  tried  to  read,  and  found 
it  impossible  to  understand  the  swimming  words  before  his 
eyes.  He  laughed  little  nervous  laughs  sometimes,  half 
from  excitement,  half  from  fear.  It  was  so  strange  to  him : 
he  had  hardly  spoken  to  a  girl  in  all  his  twenty-six  years, 
and  now  he  was  a  lover !  A  lover !  That  brought  him  up 
with  a  shock  of  reality.  It  couldn't  be  real ;  sooner  or  later 
he  would  awaken,  and  his  supper  would  be  brought,  and  it 
would  be  clear  from  that  that  he  had  dreamed  the  whole 
scene,  falling  asleep  after  tea.  Oh,  but  it  was  true!  She 
would  not  come  again.  He  was  afraid  of  her.  Afraid! 
There  was  something  too  real  in  her,  as  though  she  set  at 
naught  the  old  beloved  of  his  vaguest  thoughts.  He  was 
afraid  of  it  all,  in  a  nervous  reaction.  If  he  could  have 
fled  the  house  that  night  he  felt  he  would  never  have  re- 
turned. He  half  rose  at  the  thought ;  if  he  could  only  think 
of  a  place  whither  he  might  fly.  There  was  never  any  place 
that  he  could  seek  in  his  hour  of  panic.  Nowhere?  No- 
where.   He  was  there,  stuck  fast  and  heavy. 

He  began  to  walk  about.  A  fierce  energy  possessed  him. 
He  walked  to  and  fro  in  a  state  of  horror,  trying  to  bring 
his  mind  down  to  fact.  If  he  went  out,  to  walk  fast  for 
hours  along  deserted  highways,  Cissie  would  think  he  had 

72 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  73 

run  away.  His  very  fear  made  him  dread  giving  that  im- 
pression. What  was  it  that  he  feared?  Was  it  solitude? 
With  her  he  felt  no  fear  .  .  .  with  her  he  was  happy  .  .  . 
with  Cissie.  He  could  imagine  her  beside  him;  he  could 
feel  her  cheek  against  his ;  her  hungry  arms.  But  beyond 
her  presence,  what  consolatory  thought  had  he  ?  He  yawned 
with  a  sort  of  bitter  disgust  of  himself.  He  would  stay 
there :  she  would  come  again.  He  felt  breathless,  as  though 
the  beating  of  his  heart  had  stopped. 

It  was  all  so  unreal.  When  he  came  to  think  of  what  had 
happened  it  seemed  like  some  dream  from  which  he  had 
awakened  trembling.  He  could  recall  the  walk — he  recalled 
it  shrinkingly,  remembering  his  own  shyness.  And  there 
was  Cissie  as  she  had  gone  out  of  the  room  with  the  tea- 
tray.  ...  In  imagination  he  again  held  the  door  for  her. 
Oh,  wonderful!  She  loved  him — poor  soul!  What  was 
there  in  him  to  love  ?  He  had  never  felt  so  poor,  so  shame- 
ful, so  much  ashamed  of  his  wasted  hours,  and  his  igno- 
rance. He  knew  so  little,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  under- 
stand. He  was  abashed  before  the  consciousness  of  Cissie's 
love,  as  though  he  had  injured  her  and  deceived  her.  He 
took  upon  himself  the  blame  for  deceit.  He  had  never  tried 
to  pretend  that  he  was  worthy  of  love ;  he  only  knew  that 
he  was  shallow  and  superficial,  and  that  somehow  Cissie 
knew  too  little  of  actual  life  to  be  aware  of  that.  She  was 
a  child,  while  he,  so  much  older,  had  drifted  into  this  and 
had  carried  her  in  his  wake.  The  sense  of  feminine  dis- 
advantage was  strong  in  his  mind.  How  could  she  have 
escaped  ?  He  knew  so  much  more  of  life  than  she  did.  He 
was  a  man,  and  men  were  strong  where  women  were  weak. 
And  his  weakness  had  betrayed  them  both.  .  .  . 

Bis  thoughts  ran  on,  full  of  solicitousness,  and  fear,  and 
sympathy,  and  shame ;  and  always  there  was  that  strange 
excitement,  that  made  his  eyes  smart  and  his  breath  come 
quickly.  His  eyes  were  turned  always  to  the  door;  his 
ears  were  ever  strained  to  catch  any  sound  of  Cissie's  re- 
turn ;  his  lips  were  parted  as  if  he  were  pronouncing  aloud 


74  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

his  vehement  thoughts.  His  long  thin  hands  were  joined  in 
a  torturing  knot,  fiercely  painful.  Above  the  door  his 
shadow  was  horribly  swollen  upon  the  wall  and  ceiling,  a 
monster  to  frighten  faint  hearts — such  a  monster  as  he  felt 
himself. 

The  suspense  was  exhausting;  his  thoughts  were  so  in- 
coherent that  they  seemed  to  come  thronging  all  together, 
struggling  to  get  born,  and  coming  maimed  and  broken  into 
a  chaos  of  misgivings.  His  head  ached,  his  eyes  ached,  his 
heart  ached.  It  seemed  that  he  was  more  miserable  than 
he  had  ever  been,  more  alone,  more  with  the  sense  of  hope- 
less fear  of  eventualities.  Then  again  he  would  feel  the 
leap  of  excitement  in  his  breast  at  some  slight  sound  within 
the  house. 

"She's  coming!"  his  heart  would  cry,  and,  at  the  disap- 
pointment, would  fall  dull  and  heavy,  swelling  with  its  in- 
expressible emotion.  He  grew  to  have  no  other  conscious 
feeling  than  a  longing  that  she  might  come  again,  again  to 
rest  so  happy  in  his  arms.  He  went  to  the  door,  and  opened 
it,  listening.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  house:  the  stairs 
were  quite  dark.  Down  in  the  hall  he  could  see  the  tiny  jet 
of  gas  waving  and  flickering  .  .  .  warm  stale  air  rose  from 
below. 

He  couldn't  bear  it !  She  must  come !  He  would  will  her 
to  come.  What  was  the  good  of  that?  She  would  come  in 
time,  as  soon  as  she  could.  .  .  .  She  had  said  in  going  that 
he  must  wait  .  .  .  must  be  a  good  boy.  Seriously  he 
thought  of  that  phrase,  and  tried  to  be  patient.  She  would 
come  presently.     She  would  come. 

"Oh,  Cissie  .  .  .  Cissie  .  .  ."  he  groaned. 

He  must  wait ;  he  must  be  patient.  She  would  come — so 
he  repeated  to  himself,  half  aloud,  as  though  he  were 
doubling  trying  roles.  Why  couldn't  he  keep  still,  and  read, 
or  think  quietly  ?  He  tried  in  vain ;  and  was  up  again  in  a 
fraction  of  time,  holding  the  back  of  his  chair  and  watching 
the  door  as  a  handsome  patient  dog  might  have  done. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  75 


II 

At  last  the  kitchen  door  slammed.  He  heard  the  knife  on 
the  tray  slip  against  a  plate  or  a  glass,  clinking.  He  went 
to  the  door  again,  and  as  Cissie  came  in  he  took  the  tray 
from  her. 

"I  couldn't  .  .  .  before !"  she  whispered.  He  saw  her 
face  quite  white  in  the  lamp-glow,  and  when  he  put  his 
arms  round  her  Cissie  seemed  to  give  a  great  sob.  She  was 
like  a  child !  He  was  quivering,  and  as  white  as  Cissie  .  .  . 
and  they  stood  thus  embraced.  "There's  a  moth  on  the 
lamp,"  she  said.  Was  she  not  thinking  of  him,  as  he  of 
her  ?  It  was  the  first  inconsequence,  and  sent  a  pang  to  his 
heart. 

"So  short  a  time !"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice.  "I've  been 
waiting  an  eternity  for  you !" 

"Mind.  There's  the  window.  ...  I  must  go  .  .  .  I 
must  go.     Dad'll  want  me." 

She  drew  away,  his  hands  catching  at  hers ;  and  there  was 
a  hurried  kiss,  as  though  Cissie's  attention  was  riveted  on 
her  fears  of  suspicion  being  aroused.  As  though  their  love 
were  something  furtive,  to  be  hidden ! 

"I  shan't  see  you  again  .  .  .  to-night.  Good  night,  my 
dearest." 

She  was  gone,  smiling  up  at  him  out  of  the  faint  light 
from  the  hall  gas.  He  waited  until  the  kitchen  door  closed 
again,  his  heart  chilled.  .  .  . 

When  he  awoke  from  his  lethargy,  Velancourt  shivered. 
He  stood  up,  and  stretched  himself,  and  heard  a  clock 
striking.  It  struck  eleven.  The  food  stood  there  upon  the 
table;  but  he  could  not  touch  it.  He  would  go  to  bed  .  .  . 
even  though  he  should  lie  wakeful  and  unresting  until  the 
late  dawn  and  the  tedious  new  day. 

It  was  a  strange  mood  for  a  successful  lover:  it  was  all 
somehow  so  much  lozver  than  he  had  dreamt.  He  was  ex- 
cited, and  he  was  always  miserable  when  he  was  excited. 


76  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

He  wondered  why  he  should  not  now  feel  contemptuous 
of  the  stars:  they  still  lay  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
sky,  as  though  this  evening  had  seen  no  change  in  his  life. 
They  were  unmoved,  as  clear  and  beautiful  as  ever.  The 
moon  shone  down  her  pale  wasting  light,  and  so  stabbed 
him  again  with  a  sense  of  direct  failure.  Why  had  he 
failed?    Why  was  he  still  Adrian  Velancourt,  unchanged? 

As  he  lay  on  the  bed  he  turned  this  way  and  that,  re- 
calling every  incident  over  and  over  again.  The  wonderful 
thing  had  happened,  and  he  was  overpowered  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  failed.  It  was  inexplicable.  Was  love  no 
more  than  quick  stifled  pain,  and  an  everlasting  long-drawn 
agony  of  unsatisfied  emotion?  Oh,  if  he  could  but  know! 
The  old  vagueness  came  creeping  over  him,  enshrouding 
him,  calling  up  his  ancient  tattered  dreams  of  understand- 
ing which  should  explain  every  mystery  of  love,  and  pain, 
and  beauty  ...  as  though  he  had  still  to  turn  to  his  own 
imaginings  to  find  happiness.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that 
his  wondrous  adventure  into  life  was  the  saddest  thing  of 
all,  and  that  his  joy  lay  elsewhere,  in  some  undiscovered 
region  beyond  his  ken.  Puzzled,  and  tired  to  exhaustion, 
he  tried  to  compel  his  mind  to  yield  the  secret  he  desired. 

"O  God !"  he  cried,  in  despair.  "Teach  me.  .  .  .  Teach 
me  to  understand  the  way  to  happiness!"  He  could  hear 
himself  speaking:  it  made  him  feel  theatrical  and  full  of 
self-aversion.  He  hated  himself  for  being  so  useless,  so 
helpless  in  the  face  of  experience. 

Thereafter,  he  fell  asleep,  still  murmuring,  dreading  the 
morning. 


CHAPTER   IX 
"IF  IT  BE  THUS  TO  DREAM!' 


VELANCOURT  awoke  late.  His  breakfast  was 
brought  by  Mrs.  Jenkins,  who  eyed  him  sourly.  It 
gave  him  a  horrible  sensation  of  disquiet  that  Cissie  had 
not  come.  But  although  he  sighed,  it  was  with  a  relaxation 
of  all  his  tense  nerves.  He  ate  his  breakfast,  crumbling  the 
bread — pretending  to  eat  well  though  he  had  no  appetite. 
He  loitered  until  it  was  late,  standing  about  holding  his  hat, 
thinking  she  might  come.  He  dared  not  go  to  her,  or  call 
for  her ;  but  was  compelled  to  hesitate  thus,  not  wanting  to 
hurt  her,  not  wanting  to  miss  her  if  she  came  to  him.  At 
last  he  could  wait  no  longer,  and  he  went  downstairs  as 
noisily  as  he  could,  and  as  slowly.  There  was  no  sign  until 
he  was  away  from  the  house,  and  his  backward  glance  dis- 
covered Cissie  at  an  upper  window,  waving  to  him,  with  her 
face  radiant.  When  he  turned  again  at  the  end  of  the  road 
she  was  still  there.  He  went  on  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
he  had  known  since  the  previous  evening.  It  was  such  a 
pretty  glimpse  that  all  his  love  seemed  to  go  up  to  her,  and 
he  disappeared  from  sight  with  his  head  erect  and  his  tired 
face  full  once  more  of  pride. 

So  it  came  about  that  while  Amberley,  below  him  in  the 
same  building,  was  planning  to  try  and  meet  Barbara  Gret- 
ton  as  he  went  out  to  lunch,  Velancourt,  who  had  little  work 
to  do,  was  pacing  up  and  down  his  office  rather  miserably 
happy.  He  was  smiling  to  himself — because  he  had  seen 
Cissie  at  the  window.     Somehow  that  recollection  was  hap- 

77 


78  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

pier  than  the  others,  though  it  was  less  beautiful  than  the 
memory  of  that  time  when  he  had  found  her  in  his  room, 
lighting  the  lamp,  and  standing  in  the  dim  light.  How  little 
there  was  to  remember !  Yet  she  was  everything  to  him ! 
He  wondered  why  he  had  not  seen  her  in  the  morning. 

When  he  went  out  to  lunch  she  was  standing  opposite,  on 
the  other  side  of  Great  James  Street,  waiting  for  him. 


II 

„  "I  must  go  back  at  once,"  she  said.  "Mother  thinks  I'm 
gone  to  see  Elsie.  She  was  so  grumpy  this  morning  I 
couldn't  come.  I  went  up  to  my  bedroom  and  waved.  Did 
you  see  me?"  She  was  speaking  very  quickly,  and  her 
hand  was  lightly  upon  his  arm. 

"Can't  you  come  with  me  to  lunch?"  He  hung  before 
her,  in  twenty  minds,  wondering  what  to  do  with  her. 

"I  mustn't.    I  felt  I  must  see  you — to  arrange." 

"I'll  walk  with  you." 

They  walked  together  across  Guilford  Street  into  Meck- 
lenburg Square. 

"I'm  so  awfully  glad  you  came,"  Velancourt  was  saying. 

"Really  ?  You  don't  mind  ?"  She  was  sincerely  anxious. 
"I  didn't  like  to  come.  It's  so — a — so  muddling  at  home. 
A  ...  I  knew  where  you  were,  you  see." 

"It  was  very  clever  of  you,"  he  said.  There  was  quite  a 
long  pause  before  she  burst  out  with : 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  ...  let  you  kiss  me.  .  .  ." 

"Cissie!" 

"I  was  a  fool.    If  mother  knew,  she'd  be  furious." 

"But  Cissie  .  .  .  you  love  me,  don't  you?"  Velancourt's 
voice  was  very  strained.  This  was  a  worse  fulfilment  of 
his  worst  misgivings ;  something  that  seemed  to  make  his 
heart  stop  beating.  He  tried  to  meet  her  eyes.  Cissie 
looked  away:  her  hat  concealed  her  face.  "Cissie!"  he 
begged. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  79 

''You  never  asked  me."    Cissie's  voice  was  muffled. 

"But  you  do?  I've  been  feeling  so  miserable  .  .  .  and 
yet  awfully  happy  .  .  ."    They  walked  on,  dully. 

"Are  we  engaged?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

"I  thought  you  ...  I  hoped  so.    You  seemed  .  .  ." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you.  .  .  .    Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  mind !" 

"Of  course  not!"    Loyally  he  answered  her. 

"May  I  tell  mother?" 

Velancourt  hesitated :  it  was  so  practical  that  his  unprac- 
tical feelings  were  disturbed. 

"Wouldn't  she  think  me  rather  a  bad  .  .  .  rather  a  poor 
husband?  I'm  only  getting  thirty-five  shillings  a  week. 
I've  got  some — a  little — saved,  though."  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  he  had  been  discontented. 

"That's  plenty,"  Cissie  said,  stoutly. 

"D'you  mean  .  .  ."  he  stammered.  "D'you  mean,  to 
marry  on?" 

Cissie  nodded.  Velancourt's  heart  beat  violently.  He 
caught  her  arm.  When  he  spoke  next  his  voice  was  very 
husky. 

"When?"  he  asked.  Cissie  began  to  whimper  a  very 
little:  he  could  just  hear  her  quickly  drawn  breath.  She 
pressed  his  arm  against  her  side. 

"I'm  a  wicked  girl !"  she  said.  "A  wicked  girl."  He  felt 
helpless  and  bewildered  at  such  a  development. 

"But  why?    Surely  you're  nothing  of  the  kind?" 

"You'd  have  gone  on  quietly  but  for  me,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing a  rather  drawn  face  to  him. 

"My  dear — you're  all  I've  got.  You  don't  know.  You 
couldn't  know." 

"Really  ?  .  .  .  Do  you  want  me  ?  You're  such  a  gentle- 
man.    I  mean "     She  stopped.     She  had  not  meant  to 

say  that :    it  had  come  out  involuntarily. 

"Cissie,  I  love  you  very  much — oh,  very  much."  He  was 
tremendously  in  earnest,  stopping  before  her.  The  square 
was  almost  deserted,  and  they  were  away  from  the  houses, 
quite  unconscious  of  their  neighborhood. 


80  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"We  could  live  cheaper  than  you  do,"  she  said. 

"We  should  be  awfully  poor." 

"You'd  get  more.  I'm  sure  you  would !"  For  Velan- 
court  had  shaken  his  head. 

"I'd  have  to  get  a  different  situation,"  he  said,  vaguely. 

"You'd  get  it  easy — easily." 

"I  wonder  if  I  should.  .  .  ."  He  was  overcome  with 
hesitation.  "I  always  feel  that  if  I  lost  it  I  shouldn't  get 
another  one  very  quickly.  I'm  afraid" — he  laughed  a  little 
in  confusion — "I'm  afraid  I'm  not  very  practical,  Cissie. 
I've  just  gone  on,  never  thinking.     Till  now,  I  mean." 

"But  now "    she   said,   quickly.      "You   don't   mean 

there'd  be  any  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  must  know.  I  can't  go  to  mother  .  .  ."  He  saw 
steel  in  her  eye,  a  twist  in  her  lips. 

"It's  awfully  difficult." 

"You've  made  me  .  .  .  well,  care  for  you,"  she  said. 
"You  oughtn't  to  have  .  .  ." 

"It  was "  he  began,  defensively.     Then  he  thought 

she  was  right.  He  had  been  a  cad  to  show  his  love  with- 
out thinking  of  the  future.  "But  I  love  you  so  much,"  he 
said,  in  extenuation.    "I  do  really,  Cissie." 

"You  want  to  make  me  miserable !"  How  afraid  he  felt ! 
He  dreaded  already  her  quick  practical  eye,  her  readiness 
for  dismay.  It  was  not  that  he  was  a  coward;  it  was  his 
inexperience  made  him  defenceless  against  such  weapons. 

"Cissie.  I  can  do  anything  if  you'll  only  help !"  Rashly, 
he  gave  in  to  her  resolve  to  think  well  of  his  practical  abil- 
ities. "You'll  help,  won't  you?"  He  hung  upon  her  an- 
swer, feeling  that  his  happiness  depended  upon  it.  His 
dread  was  all  for  her  happiness,  in  case  she  might  suffer. 
His  thought  was  not  at  all  for  himself. 

"Oh,  I  must  go.  Look  at  the  time!"  She  drew  free 
from  his  arm. 

"But  you'll  help,  dear?" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  81 

She  looked  quickly  about,  and  held  up  her  face  to  be 
kissed. 

"God  bless  you !"  cried  Velancourt,  with  that  odd  feeling 
of  dismayed  gladness  that  he  had  felt  before. 

Ill 

He  walked  about,  exulting.  On  his  way  back  he  met 
Amberley.  A  cunning  secrecy,  new  to  him,  made  him  self- 
conscious. 

"Morning!"  said  Amberley.     "Pretty  bobbish?" 

"Oh,  Amberley.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  very  well.  I've  been  for 
a  walk.  You  look  well."  Amberley  passed  on,  with  a  nod, 
thinking  of  the  evening  ahead  of  him.  Velancourt  went 
back  to  his  office. 

"You  dear!"  he  was  thinking.  It  was  beautiful  of  her 
to  come  so  frankly  and  generously  to  see  him.  And  to 
wait !  It  was  a  shock  to  him  to  remember  that  in  his  sur- 
prise and  delight  at  seeing  her  so  unexpectedly  there  be- 
fore him,  he  hadn't  asked  if  she'd  been  there  long.  .  .  . 
He  hoped  she  had  only  just  arrived.  What  a  wonderful 
girl  she  was,  to  see  clearly  and  yet,  in  spite  of  everything, 
to  love  him!  "You  shan't  regret  it,"  he  said,  addressing 
her  as  though  she  had  been  there.  "My  dear  girl,  I'd  give 
my  happiness  for  you.  You  wonderful  girl !"  Even  alone, 
his  eyes  were  shy  at  the  thought  of  her.  It  had  never 
seemed  possible  that  anybody  could  love  him.  He  felt  that 
he  was  so  clearly  not  lovable :  how  could  he  be  ?  there  was 
nothing  in  him  to  love.  Yet  she  had  divined  his  desire :  she 
had  created  a  man  to  love — wonderfully  she  had  under- 
stood him !  He  had  never  told  Cissie  anything  about  his 
hopes  for  the  future:  she  couldn't  be  expected  to  under- 
stand them.  That  was  not  her  beauty;  she  came  to  him 
far  otherwise  than  a  mentor.  She  came  as  a  sweetheart 
— he  thought,  a  wife.  He  would  so  gladly  and  bravely  pro- 
tect her — it  was  as  though  she  were  some  very  precious 
little  fragile  thing,  like  a  delicate  flower,  made  to  be  shielded 


82  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

from  the  more  cruel  winds,  made  to  be  loved  and  cher- 
ished.   She  was  wonderful ! 

He  folded  his  arms  on  the  table  before  him  and  sud- 
denly laid  his  head  upon  them.  His  lips  trembled,  and  his 
eyes  were  wet.  He  felt  so  strangely  humble,  in  the  face  of 
this  most  extraordinarily  vouchsafed  marvel,  the  first  splash 
of  vivid  feeling  in  his  life.  He  remembered  a  dim  picture 
of  Brad ford-on-A von;  and  his  father's  dying  years.  How 
unhappy  they  had  been !  And  he  hadn't  been  living  since ! 
He  had  wandered  in  a  stupor  past  the  beauties  of  life, 
without  sharing  them!  Now  they  came  to  him,  into  his 
life,  rapturously  into  his  heart !  He  drew  a  quick,  shudder- 
ing breath.  He  had  something  to  live  for  at  last:  at  last 
one  true  soul  for  whom  his  love  would  make  service  the 
most  blessed  thing  in  the  world — a  picture  of  the  divine 
state.  I  serve — the  noblest  motto  of  all:  the  proudest  of 
all.    It  was  the  key  to  life — not  servitude,  but  service. 

A  very  quiet  smile  was  in  his  eyes.  This  was  the  best 
dream  of  all. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  MARRIAGE  IN  TRAIN 


CISSIE  did  not  tell  her  mother.  She  told  Elsie  instead, 
and  Elsie  gave  her  other  advice  as  she  rocked  the 
baby  to  sleep.  So  Cissie,  important  with  a  new  secret, 
came  busily  to  Velancourt  in  the  evening. 

"Elsie  says:  if  I  tell  mother  she'll  make  a  lot  of  fuss. 
She  says  we  ought  to  get  married  first,  and  then  tell." 

"But,  Cissie!"  said  Velancourt,  "that's  not  fair  to  your 
mother." 

Cissie  reddened  a  little,  and  looked  pathetically  up  into 
his  face. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "But  it's  not  that 
at  all.  If  I  tell  her  now — Elsie  says  so — she  won't  let  me. 
She'll  want  to  keep  me  to  do  the  work  here.  See,  I'm  the 
one  that's  left.  She  never  lets  me  go  anywhere.  I  never  go 
out — can't  go  out  alone.  She  keeps  me  busy  here.  If  we're 
.  .  .  engaged,  it  means — oh,  you  know  what  it  means. 
She'll  keep  it  on  and  on.    You  couldn't  stay  here  then." 

"Couldn't  I  ?"  asked  Velancourt,  mildly. 

"No.     Cause  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  ." 

"Oh !"    He  seemed  to  catch  something  of  her  intention. 

"She'd  have  to  let  me  go  if  we  were  married.  We'd  just 
go — right  away  from  here.     See?" 

"You're  wonderful !"  he  breathed. 

"Didn't  you  know  that?  If  it's  not  now,  you'd  have  to 
wait  and  wait.    You  want  to  marry  me,  don't  you?"    She 

83 


84  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

was  almost  savagely  humorous,  and,  although  she  smiled, 
her  face  for  a  moment  was  clouded. 

"Cissie !" 

"Well,  that's  what  I  think." 

"When  should  we  be  married?    This  week?" 

"Elsie  says  you  have  to  give  notice  at  the  registry.  .  .  . 
She  says  it  takes  time.  I  don't  know.  You'd  have  to  find 
that  out.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  of  course.  .  .  .  What  an  idiot  I  am !  I  can  easily 
find  out.  I  think  it's  three  weeks.  I  could  do  it  to-morrow. 
You  have  to  fill  up  forms,  I  remember." 

"A  splendid  old  lawyer  you  are!"  she  jeered. 

His  serious  eyes  were  on  hers  for  a  moment,  with  a  pe- 
culiar look  of  distaste.  Then  his  frown  cleared,  and  he 
kissed  her  lingeringly,  as  though  to  erase  from  his  own 
mind  an  inconvenient  thought. 

"What  a  boy!"  But  she  was  pleased.  "Oh,  goodness! 
I  must  go." 

"Don't  go,  Cissie !" 

"D'you  want  me  to  stay?" 

"Oh,  always !" 

She  came  quite  near  to  him  again,  with  her  eyelids  droop- 
ing. 

"Soon  .  .  ."  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice.  Then, 
abruptly:  "But  p'raps  you  won't  want  me  then.  Once 
you've  got  me !" 

It  seemed  to  him  horrible  that  she  should  speak  with 
such  a  thickness  of  voice — as  though,  when  she  was  stirred, 
some  uglier  Cissie  appeared — in  the  way  men  speak  angrily 
of  money,  when  they  think  they  have  been  given  short 
change,  or  been  cheated  in  some  other  fashion.  Always  it 
wounded  him,  as  any  ugliness  or  deformity  did,  to  find 
human  beings  less  noble  than  his  own  conception  of  them. 

"You  oughtn't  to  say  things  like  that,"  he  said,  warmly. 
"It's  not  like  you." 

Cissie  checked  herself,  though  she  wondered  half-afraid 
at  his  protest. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  85 

''I'm  sorry,  I'm  sure,"  she  made  answer  with  an  air  of 
rather  defiant  flippancy.     "You're  not  offended,  are  you?" 

"Gracious  no!"  Offended!  What  a  word  that  was !  It 
ought  not  to  be  in  the  language. 

She  retreated,  smiling  at  him.  Then,  very  quickly,  she 
returned,  full  of  contrition,  with  her  hands  outstretched. 

"I'm  a  little  cat !  I  never  meant  to  be  beastly.  Dear,  you 
forgive  me,  don't  you  !"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  What 
was  there  in  such  a  question  but  the  pleasure  of  being  hum- 
ble? "Good-bye  for  the  present!"  she  whispered;  and  was 
gone. 

And  now  he'd  got  to  think  out  his  own  plans.  And 
when  his  mind  came  round  to  the  idea  of  actually  being 
married  in  three  weeks,  he  could  only  feel  that  the  nor- 
mal world  had  somehow  lost  its  place  in  the  cosmos,  and 
that  he  was  sliding  off  into  unreality.  In  three  weeks.  .  . . 
Why,  it  was  hardly  long  enough  to  taste  the  pleasure  of 
anticipation !  It  was  as  though  Paradise  had  thrown  wide 
its  portals  to  receive  one  who  knew  not  the  way  thither, 
but  stumbled  still  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  underworld. 


II 

Let  him  for  once  be  quite  clear.  If  he  was  to  be  mar- 
ried, he  ought  to  be  quite  certain  of  what  he  was  going  to 
do.  Yes,  but  in  order  to  be  quite  clear,  he  must  talk  to 
Cissie!  He  did  not  imagine  he  could  get  more  money 
in  his  present  situation :  the  firm  might  even  come  to  an 
end.  Then  he  thought  that  would  be  really  impossible. 
Where  did  Cissie  want  to  live?  If  they  could  only  have 
a  little  home  somewhere  of  their  own !  He  was  excited 
at  the  thought,  and  the  resolve  to  be  clear  was  forgotten 
in  a  haze  of  imagining.  Cissie  there  by  the  fireside  .  .  . 
and  he  learning  from  her  very  simplicity,  until,  in  their 
happiness,  they  should  touch  God's  hand.  .  .  . 

Long  afterwards  he  returned   to  the  clear  thought  of 


86  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

living  on  thirty-five  shillings  a  week  and  the  kind  of  home 
Cissie  desired.  Poor  little  girl !  She  had  been  shackled 
by  Mrs.  Jenkins — Mrs.  Jenkins's  moroseness  had  always 
seemed  to  him  an  unpleasant  thing.  She  could  not  go 
out ;  could  not  see  or  hear  anything ;  until  he  liberated  her. 
He  smiled,  in  imagining  himself  the  Red  Cross  Knight.  As 
he  saw  how  shrewdly  she  had  noted  the  position  in  which 
a  mere  engagement  would  place  her,  he  nodded  sharply. 
She  had,  of  course,  to  think — not  of  her  mother,  but  of 
herself.  Yet  .  .  .  yet  .  .  .  the  traitorous  horrible  cleav- 
ing of  thought  came  ...  he  wished  she  had  not  seen  that 
for  herself.  He  was  tremendously  delicate  about  it;  but 
he  wished  that  he  might  have  had  the  opportunity  of  plead- 
ing her  interests  against  her  own  thought  for  her  mother. 
If  she  thought  naturally  of  herself  first — didn't  he  hate 
that  ?  He  hated  selfishness :  it  seemed  to  him  so  mean 
a  vice.  But  then  he  found  very  readily  an  excuse.  She 
had  talked  it  all  over  with  her  sister:  very  likely  Elsie 
had  insisted  on  her  duty  to  herself.  His  loyalty  was  alert : 
of  course  that  was  the  explanation.  She  was  everything 
that  was  unselfish.  She  could  not  think  of  herself.  If  she 
thought  first  of  her  own  happiness,  that  made  them  rather 
one-sided,  as  he  also  was  thinking  of  her.  Didn't  it?  He 
majestically  uprooted  the  notion,  forgetting  that  it  was  a 
weed,  and  had  long  tough  roots  many  feet  below  the  sur- 
face, always  growing  again,  as  strong  as  ever.  He  did  not 
realise  that  weeds  are  more  hardy  than  flowers,  and  that 
they  nourish  themselves  and  grow  imperceptibly,  out  of 
sight. 

"Let  us  be  clear !"  he  said.  "Thirty-five  shillings  a  week. 
She  says  we  could  live  more  cheaply.  I  might  earn  some 
more  money.  How?  By  writing?"  His  mind  drifted  to 
his  books,  which  shone  like  good  deeds.  ...  It  tickled  his 
vanity  to  think  of  writing.  He  thought  he  knew  something 
about  books;  but  he  did  not  want  to  write.  Why  write, 
when  there  was  so  much  written?  How  much  better  to 
enjoy  the  riches  of  the  past !    To-day  there  was  no  litera- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  87 

ture:  books  were  published,  it  was  true,  but  they  were 
nothing:  he  never  read  a  modern  book.  They  were  all 
novels.  If  he  could  have  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  Sir 
Thomas  More,  and  Bacon,  and  his  old  Boethius,  he  would 
let  all  modern  books  go.  But  if  it  should  be  a  question 
of  earning  money — people  seemed  to  take  up  literature  with 
that  notion — it  might  be  different.  He  wondered  if  Cissie 
loved  books. 

They  would  be  very  poor.  Yes ;  but  if  they  were  happy, 
they  couldn't  be  poor.  Blessed  are  the  poor,  for  they  shall 
be  happy  in  their  poverty.  St.  Francis  spoke  of  "Our  Lady 
Poverty."  He  wondered  if  Cissie — but  she  couldn't  have. 
He  would  read  it  to  her:  they  together  would  read  The 
Little  Flowers  of  St.  Francis.  To  think  that  he  might  so 
wonderfully  see  her  spirit  expanding  and  growing  more 
beautiful!  It  was  like  a  magical  happening.  One  week 
ago  to  feel  that  life  was  far  and  far  from  his  compre- 
hension: now  to  be  trembling  on  the  verge  of  such  hap- 
piness as  he  had  never  dared  to  dream! 


Ill 

In  those  days  he  knew  a  thousand  moods,  from  despair 
to  ecstasy,  and  they  changed  as  though  they  were  kaleido- 
scopic. He  lived  in  a  blur,  painfully  exact  at  the  office, 
looking  forward  to  his  rare  meetings  with  Cissie,  sitting 
nervously  excited  when  alone.  He  could  not  think  of  any- 
thing: Cissie  had  all  to  do.  She  took  him  one  Sunday  to 
look  at  two  barely  furnished  rooms  in  Islington — that  place 
being  "across  country"  about  a  couple  of  miles  away,  and 
therefore  almost  as  inaccessible  by  her  mother  as  the  sea- 
side— and  she  also  arranged,  through  Elsie,  for  a  week- 
end at  Brighton.  The  crowning  stroke  of  diplomacy  was 
to  leave  the  house  near  Mornington  Crescent  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  ostensibly  for  Elsie's,  to  pick  up  Velancourt,  take 


88  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

him  to  view  the  convenient  rooms,  and  then  actually  to  go 
on  to  Elsie's,  taking  Velancourt  with  her.  Her  appearance 
there  was  at  their  arrival  a  complete  triumph.  Velancourt 
(whose  Christian  name  she  had  only  learned  by  question- 
ing) looked  as  handsome  as  he  had  ever  done — as  much 
like  an  Italian  count,  thought  Cissie;  and  Elsie's  Bert  was 
stupefied  by  the  spectacle. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  he  to  Cissie,  aside;  "but  did  you  say 
you  was  goin'  to  marry  this  distinguished  foreigner?" 

"You  go  on !"  Cissie  said,  pushing  him  off  in  her  nervous- 
ness.    "Mind  your  own  business,  Saucy." 

"My  mistake!"  said  Bert,  with  a  profound  bow,  and  his 
hands  thrust  out,  in  the  manner  of  the  Frenchman  in  comic 
pictures. 

The  Bert  Tebbers  lived  in  a  flat  (which  had  once  been 
a  floor  in  a  very  large  house)  near  Holloway  road ;  and 
Bert  was  in  a  shop  in  the  City.  Cissie  had  told  Velancourt 
that  Bert  was  in  the  City;  but  not  that  he  was  in  a  shop. 
Velancourt  would  not  have  minded  the  shop;  but  he  ob- 
jected to  the  easy  familiarity  of  the  man,  and  thought  him 
vulgar.  So  he  became  speechless,  and  they  thought  he 
was  proud. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  when  Velancourt  came  in  the 
baby  was  screaming,  and  Elsie  was  too  hot  and  distracted 
to  be  at  her  most  attentive.  It  made  them  all  a  little  quiet ; 
and  Velancourt  sat  trying  not  to  look  about  him.  The 
chair  in  which  he  sat  was  an  arm-chair,  bought  on  the  hire- 
purchase  system,  and  already  supported  by  a  little  block  of 
wood  instead  of  its  proper  back  leg.  There  was  another 
chair,  in  which  Bert  sat,  which  corresponded  with  his  own 
except  that  it  had  no  arms.  There  was  the  same  ground 
of  magenta  colour  and  large  square  decoration  of  blue  and 
green  and  yellow  on  back  and  seat.  A  very  cheap  greeny- 
brown  carpet  was  on  the  floor,  and  a  big  simulation  marble 
clock,  the  hands  of  which  did  not  move,  on  the  mantel- 
piece. There  were  also  shells  there,  and  a  little  calendar. 
The  table  was  covered  with  a  crimson  cloth;  the  pictures 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  89 

were  lithographs  of  imitation  Marcus-Stone  pictures, 
framed  in  imitation  polished  mahogany  with  gilt  bevels.  A 
copy  of  a  paper  containing  photographs  of  half-clothed 
women  lay  on  the  hearthrug.  Cissie  gave  a  sort  of  sneez- 
ing laugh,  and  picked  it  up,  putting  it  behind  Velancourt, 
on  a  shelf. 

"Saucy !"  she  said,  in  response  to  Bert's  steady  look. 

"These  girls,"  he  said,  to  Velancourt.  "They  read  'em  on 
the  sly." 

"You  story !  I  never  do !"  cried  Cissie.  "Don't  you  be- 
lieve him,  Adrian.    Nasty  common  things." 

"See?  She  knows  all  about  it,  eh?"  Adrian  frowned. 
Cissie  shook  her  head  warningly  at  Bert;  but  he  ignored 
the  movement.  "Doesn't  want  me  to  give  her  away !"  Bert 
could  not  understand  why  he  shouldn't  have  his  little  joke. 
Harry  Wingate — he'd  been  after  young  Cis,  Elsie  said — 
would  have  laughed  at  it.  If  Harry  Wingate  had  laughed, 
Cissie  would  have  laughed  too.  Couldn't  make  the  girl  out. 
Was  she  turning  priggish?  If  this  fellow  sat  mum  through 
it  all  he  would  be  a  "pi."  He'd  be  a  pale  male  prurient 
prude ! 

Adrian's  spirits  sank,  until  he  looked  the  picture  of 
gloom.  This  horrible  man,  he  thought,  would  talk  like  this 
all  the  time.  He  couldn't  talk  back :  he  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  Bert,  finding  that  he  wasn't  "going,"  sat  sucking 
his  teeth,  and  tapping  his  fingers  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 
Cissie  got  up  and  hurried  to  Elsie,  who  had  taken  the  cry- 
ing baby  into  the  bedroom. 

"Oh,  Bert's  awful!"  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"He's  talking.  .  .  .  Might  see  that  he  doesn't  like  it.  He 
is  a  beast.  Adrian's  sitting  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head. 
Oh,  it's  miserable !" 

"Here,  you  tell  Bert  I  want  him." 

Cissie  hurried  back  with  the  message.  Bert  stretched  his 
legs  out,  and  fidgeted  with  his  heavy  watch-chain. 

"What's  she  want?"  he  said,  suspiciously.  Then  he  rose 
slowly,  and  stood  at  his  full  height  of  five  feet  three  inches. 


90  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

He  was  rather  broad,  and  fair,  with  a  little  moustache,  and 
hair  parted  at  one  side  and  brushed  back;  and  he  wore  a 
thick  light  brown  tweed  suit  with  darker  brown  markings 
on  it.  His  boots  were  bright  orange,  and  they  squeaked  as 
he  walked.  Velancourt  would  have  thought  of  him  as  a 
counter-jumper  if  Bert  had  not  been  Cissie's  brother-in- 
law.  But  Velancourt  was  not  in  accord  with  any  sort  of 
normal  man,  and  had  very  strong  distastes.  He  disliked 
Bert's  grinning  self-satisfaction. 

Bert  went  very  slowly  out  of  the  room,  and  as  soon  as 
he  was  gone  Cissie  came  over  and  sat  against  the  arm  of 
Velancourt's  chair. 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  him !"  she  pleaded.  "He's  aw- 
ful. He  doesn't  know  any  better!"  Her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"Why,  Cissie,  dear !"  he  cried.  "Don't  cry.  I  only  won- 
der how  you  can  stand  it.  I  was  only  thinking  of  you. 
Really." 

"I'm  so  happy  here  with  you.  D'you  know  it's  the  first 
time !" 

"Then  I'm  happy  too." 

"He's  all  right  when  you  know  him."  Velancourt  looked 
gloomy  again.    "Truly,  he  is." 

"He's  so  horribly  familiar." 

"For  my  sake,"  she  urged.  She  removed  her  caressing 
arm  as  the  door  opened  again. 

"Oho !"  said  the  cheerful  Bert.  "Don't  mind  me,  dears ! 
I'm  only  gooseberry!" 

"Gooseberry  fool !"  cried  Cissie. 

"That's  better  than  gooseberry  'pi,'  "  retorted  Bert,  rather 
sulkily.  "Well,  Elsie's  comin'  in  arf-a-tick.  Perhaps  she's 
more  of  a  lady  than  me.    Have  a  cigarette,  mister?" 

With  ruffled  hauteur  he  offered  a  case. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  Velancourt  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Drop  o' whisky?" 

"Bert!"  Cissie  was  scarlet  at  the  baiting.  "We're  just 
going  to  have  tea !" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  91 

"Well,  what  of  it?  I  only  wondered  if  the  gentleman 
was  fond  of  communicatin'  with  spirits." 

"He's  not  like  you  are."  Cissie  was  shaking  with  a  sort 
of  nervous  excitement.  She  had  so  longed  for  the  after- 
noon to  be  a  success ;  and  here  it  was  turning  into  a  miser- 
able failure.  What  must  he  think  of  her?  She  didn't  un- 
derstand what  it  was  he  disliked  about  Bert;  but  she  knew 
it  was  all  wrong,  and  stupid  and  unhappy.  And  Bert  was 
as  beastly  as  he  could  be.  She  gulped  at  a  sob ;  her  face 
seemed  swollen,  almost  as  though  she  had  been  crying,  and 
her  prettiness  all  blotted  with  helpless  chagrin. 

Velancourt  sat  still  in  the  arm-chair,  his  lips  set,  and  his 
cheeks  even  paler.  He  paled  as  he  became  angry.  More 
bitter  words  were  trembling  in  his  mind  than  he  had  felt 
for  years.  A  slow  passion  of  anger  was  growing  in  him  at 
this  boor's  insufferable  stupidities.  He  kept  his  angry  eyes 
lowered  with  difficulty,  so  that  Cissie  might  not  be  hurt  any 
more.  Besides,  anger  with  such  a  man  was  beneath  him. 
It  would  be  an  indignity. 

"In  my  own  house  .  .  ."  muttered  Bert,  unheard  by 
Velancourt.  What  right  had  a  damned  white-faced  fool 
to  come  frowning  like  that?  If  the  fellow  hadn't  a  drop 
of  sport  in  him,  he  ought  not  to  spoil  sport  elsewhere. 
Harry  Wingate  was  different  to  this  sort  of  mug.  He  was 
a  man — took  you  at  what  you  were — neither  more  nor  less. 
Liked  a  bit  of  fun,  a  cigarette,  and  a  glass  of  beer.  One 
of  the  best,  he  was.  This  fellow  wouldn't  think  of  going 
into  a  pub.  He  supposed  he'd  direct  you  about  London  by 
the  churches !  Bert  had  only  known  one  man  who'd  done 
that,  and  he  had  trouble  over  the  cash-box,  and  went  out 
somewhere  as  a  missionary.  Lot  of  swipes,  they  were ! 
He  muttered  to  himself. 

"Come  on,  old  girl,"  said  Elsie,  at  the  door.  "Here's  the 
kettle  boiling." 

Velancourt  and  Bert  sat  with  frowning  faces.  Bert 
sighed  heavily,  and  made  other  musical  sounds  of  exhaus- 


92  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

tion.    Also,  he  whistled,  until  Velancourt  almost  screamed. 
They  were  almost  equally  bored. 


IV 

"When's  it  to  be  ?"  asked  Elsie,  at  the  tea-table.  Her  own 
eyes  were  tired  with  work,  and  poor  food,  and  constant 
truckling;  but  it  seemed  like  a  romance  to  her  that  Cissie 
should  be  going  to  have  such  a  handsome  husband,  and  one 
who  was  such  a  gentleman.  She  meant  to  be  a  little  arch. 
Cissie  reddened,  and  fingered  the  tablecloth.  Velancourt 
tried  to  conquer  his  aversion  and  speak  naturally. 

"Next  Saturday  week,"  he  blurted  out. 

"Oo.  .  .  .  Getting  near,  isn't  it !  I  do  hope  you  have  it 
fine.  Going  to  Brighton,  aren't  you?  Ye-es.  I  love 
Brighton.  People  say  it's  'London-by-the-Sea.'  Well,  I 
tell  them :  if  that's  London  by  the  Sea  I  wouldn't  mind  liv- 
ing there.  The  shops  are  so  good;  and  everything's  as 
cheap  as  cheap.    Oo  you  are  a  lucky  girl,  Cis." 

"It's  I  who  am  lucky,"  Velancourt  said,  gently. 

"Eh?"  cried  Bert.  "Well,  that's  very  nicely  said.  I 
thought  you  felt  we  was — er — wasn't  good  enough  for  you." 

"Bertie,  dear." 

"Really  .  .  .  you're  entirely  mistaken,"  stammered  Vel- 
ancourt. Cissie  was  still  like  a  rose,  as  happy  as  she  had 
ever  been  in  her  life  at  the  unexpected  turn. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it.  What  I  say  is :  if  a  man's 
ashamed  ...  no  matter  who  he  may  be  ...  if  he  thinks 
he's  .  .  .  now,  I've  got  mixed.    I'd  better  begin  again." 

"No,  Bert!"  from  Cissie. 

"I  think  I  understand  you."  Velancourt  seemed  almost  to 
rise  to  the  occasion. 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  talk  in  this  way.  I 
never  meant  to  be  at  all,  so  to  speak,  er  .  .  ." 

"More  tea,  Bert?" 

"Thanks,  my  dear.     Now,  you  and  me  ull  'ave  a  chat 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  93 

after  tea.  'Tisn't  often  I  make  a  mistake.  .  .  .  I'll  just — 
as  a  married  man  myself.  .  .  .    See  what  I  mean?" 

"Don't  you  listen  to  his  nonsense,"  said  Elsie.  "He's  a 
caution.  Did  I  tell  you  what  he  said  to  the  tram  conductor, 
Cis  ?"  Elsie  giggled  at  the  recollection.  It  was  a  long  story, 
which  took  her  half  over  London  in  preliminary  topo- 
graphical description ;  and  she  rather  lost  sight  of  the  story 
in  refilling  the  cups  and  in  diverging  into  a  description  of 
the  shops  in  Brixton.  Velancourt  did  not  hear  the  joke; 
but  Cissie  laughed  in  a  suppressed,  fearful  way,  with  her 
eyes  strained  to  their  corners  to  watch  his  expression. 

"They  don't  like  the  idea  of  me  givin'  you  a  bit  of  ad- 
vice," chuckled  Bert,  lighting  his  pipe  as  he  finished.  "They 
like  to  catch  us  green.  Well,  I  wasn't  so  very  particlery 
green  myself.  ...  I  mean  to  say :  I  haven't  knocked  about 
a  bit  without  seeing  a  thing  or  two."  He  lowered  his  voice. 
"See  what  I  mean  ?  What  the  women  like  is  somebody  who 
don't  know  they're  kidding.  Cry!  Bless  you — cry  their 
eyes  out.    So  you  think." 

"Oh,  you  go  on.  You  know  a  lot  about  it,  mister  Sharp !" 
cried  Cissie.  "Just  you  drink  up  your  tea!  And  not  so 
much  of  it." 

Bert  shot  a  wicked  eye  at  Velancourt,  and  wagged  his 
head.  Velancourt  was  guilty  of  a  concealed  shiver.  His 
temporary  unbending  had  been  due  to  an  effort  of  will ; 
and  his  detestation  of  Bert,  and  of  all  that  Bert  stood  for, 
was  as  keen  as  ever.  He  was.  as  it  were,  sodden  with  dis- 
may at  this  sudden  glimpse  of  Cissie's  relations.  He  was 
still  as  staunch  as  ever  to  her ;  but  he  found  Bert's  amiabil- 
ity one  degree  worse  than  his  resentment.  His  one  idea  was 
to  get  Cissie  out  of  it.  The  sister  was  not  so  bad,  he  half- 
grudgingly,  half-anxiously  admitted :  she  had  probably  been 
spoiled  by  association.  But  to  him  Bert  was  as  repellent  as 
a  drunkard  or  a  libertine.  Pie  was  too  coarse  to  be  toler- 
able. His  glances,  his  speeches — they  were  alike  in  unde- 
cipherable grossness.     Velancourt  could  not  follow  them; 


94  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

but  he  exaggerated  them  into  perfect  vileness  through  his 
own  ignorance. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  I  remember  young  Cissie  when  she  was 
so  high — as  high  as  the  table.  Used  to  be  very  fond  of 
kissin'  in  those  days,  Cis.  .  .  .  Course,  you've  given  it  up 
now.  Too  old  for  it — I  don't  think,  papa!"  He  roared 
with  what  seemed  to  Velancourt  obscene  laughter.  "There, 
there.  .  .  .  Look  at  her.  There's  many  an  actress  would 
envy  you  that  colour,  Cis.  A  good  many  would  envy  you 
the  blushes,  too.  There's  some  who  can't  change  colour  for 
toffee.    Ah,  my  girl  .  .  ." 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  be  going  now?"  asked 
Velancourt,  in  a  suppressed  voice.  And  Cissie  flew  for 
her  hat  and  coat,  although  she  had  hoped  that  they  might 
stay  for  part  of  the  evening. 

"You  mustn't  mind  the  way  he  talks,"  Elsie  said,  as  she 
followed  her  sister. 

The  two  men  stood  up,  and  Velancourt  seemed  to  tower 
above  Bert,  whose  head  was  sturdily  deep  in  his  shoulders. 
Velancourt  looked  like  a  young  priest,  with  his  fine  face 
and  eager  out-speaking  eyes  that  seemed  always  to  be  look- 
ing at  something  beautiful.  Bert  was  content  to  be  himself, 
in  the  City  shop,  mysteriously  subsisting  in  a  sort  of  shoddy 
affluence. 

"No.  You  mustn't  mind  me,"  Bert  said,  ruminating.  "I 
can  see  I'm  not  your  sort.  Well,  there's  all  sorts,  ain't 
there  ?  I  mean,  that  your  sort  and  my  sort's  got  to  go  on. 
See  what  I  mean?  'East  is  East  and  West  is  West,'  as  Kip- 
ling says.  Ah,  there's  a  great  man.  One  of  the  best.  Eng- 
lish, to  the  backbone.  I'm  English,  myself.  Wouldn't 
think  it,  would  you?" 

"I  thought  you  typically  English,"  Velancourt  said,  am- 
biguously. 

"There's  no  mistake,  you  do  know  how  to  put  it,"  Bert 
said,  admiringly.  "Lit'ry,  that's  what  you  are.  Great 
reader,  ain't  you  ?  Thought  so.  Well,  I  been  very  busy  all 
my  life — started  at  thirteen.    Takes  a  bit  of  doing,  eh  what  ? 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  95 

Yes,  and  now  look  at  me,  with  a  wife  and  family.  Yet  I 
keep  smiling.  D'you  blame  me?  She's  a  good  wife.  And 
your  girl's  as  good  as  gold.  Will  of  her  own,  and  all  that ; 
but  if  you  show  you're  going  to  be  boss  and  wear  the 
breeches,  she'll  go  as  sweet  as  a  lamb."  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment before  the  peroration,  which  he  delivered  with  empha- 
sis. "Other  hand,  you  hesitate — she'll  get  the  whip  hand  in 
a  second.  See  what  I  mean?  You  keep  your  eye  on  it. 
Women  are  all  right  if  you're  drivin'.  You  can't  run  a 
pair  abreast  without  a  coachman.  And  once  the  woman's 
on  the  box  .  .  .  Well,  I  leave  you  to  work  out  your  own 
salvation,  as  the  papers  say." 
Velancourt  could  not  speak  from  indignation. 


"Oh,  let's  walk!"  pleaded  Cissie.  If  she  arrived  home 
too  early,  she  would  have  to  explain  why  she  had  come 
away  from  Elsie's,  and  that  meant  lies.  She  couldn't  in- 
vent them  this  evening:  she  felt  too  awful!  She  began  to 
walk  holding  his  arm,  half  timid,  half  resentful.  He  was 
still  wild.  He  hadn't  any  right  to  be.  It  hadn't  been  as 
bad  as  all  that  .  .  .  but  Bert  had  been  an  utter  beast,  to  go 
on  like  he  did,  when  she'd  asked  him  not  to,  and  all.  She 
gave  a  big  sigh,  and  drew  away  from  him. 

Velancourt  took  her  arm.  The  very  fact  of  being  alone 
with  her  was  a  delight  to  him,  and  his  irritation  was  almost 
gone.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  and  very  few  people  seemed 
to  be  about.    He  could  feel  the  stars. 

"You're  not  angry  with  me?"  she  suddenly  asked.  Velan- 
court felt  the  strange  precarious  delight  of  the  young  man 
who  wants  to  show  that  some  feeling  of  his  has  been  hurt, 
to  cause  his  sweetheart  great  apologetic  anxiety,  and  to  feel 
the  bond  of  sentiment  the  stronger  for  the  rift.  Cissie,  mis- 
understanding his  mood,  went  on,  talkatively :  "I  don't  see 
why  you  should  be.    'Twasn't  my  fault  if  Bert  did  talk  like 


g6  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

that.  He's  got  no  business  to;  but  there's  no  sense  in  get- 
ting ratty  with  me  about  it.  /  couldn't  prevent  him.  And 
it's  spoilt  my  afternoon,  that  I  was  looking  forward  to  so 
much.  You  don't  think  of  me,  when  you  sit  glum  like  that 
all  the  time — don't  think  of  how  miserable  it  makes  me, 
and  what  they'll  think.  I  don't  know  whatever  I  shall  do 
with  you.  .  .  ." 

"Cissie,  stop !"  Velancourt  said.  "Are  you  trying  to 
quarrel  with  me?  I'm  not  angry  with  you;  I'm  not  angry 
with  anybody.  It  makes  me  miserable  to  be  with  people 
.  .  ."  he  slowed  down,  because  he  could  not  speak  candidly 
to  her.    She  did  not  understand. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you. 
That's  what  it  is !"  She  drew  her  arm  free.  Well,  there 
were  two  of  them  now,  with  the  desire  to  be  coaxed  back 
into  forgiveness.    "Oh,  I  wish  I'd  never  met  you !" 

Every  word  seemed  to  jar  more  and  more  upon  him.  If 
he  had  obeyed  the  sudden  hatred  that  started  into  life  in  his 
heart,  he  would  have  left  her — would,  perhaps,  never  have 
seen  her  again.  But,  although  his  face  was  ashen,  he  took 
her  arm  again,  and  she  did  not  resist. 

"You're  making  me  angry  with  you,  Cissie.  You're  so 
unreasonable." 

"Who's  unreasonable?"  she  asked.  If  he  had  knocked 
her  down,  she  would  have  followed  him  for  ever;  but  the 
squalid  attraction  of  an  aimless  squabble  danced  before 
her.    Velancourt  made  a  last  effort. 

"My  dearest.  I  didn't  like  your  brother-in-law.  I 
thought  he  wasn't  nice,  and  didn't  treat  you  properly.  The 
fact  that  he  was  your  brother-in-law  prevented  me  from 
getting  up  and  coming  away  five  minutes  after  we  got  to 
the  house.  To  say  it's  unreasonable  that  I  should  resent 
the  insult  to  you " 

"What  insult?" 

"Can't  you  see  that  every  word  was  an  insult?  Surely 
you  see  that?"    A  great  horror  seized  him. 

"I  think  you're  silly  to  make  such  a  fuss  because  he  made 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  97 

his  jokes.    He  doesn't  mean  anything.    What  harm  did  they 
do  you?" 

"Well,  supposing  we  don't  talk  about  it  any  more," 
Velancourt  said,  with  a  grim  mouth,  and  his  heart  like 
lead. 

"But  I  won't  have  you  making  me  miserable  when  we  go 
out,  like  this." 

"Very  well,  you  shan't,  then." 

She  was  terrified  at  that  apparently  so  final  speech,  not 
knowing  what  he  meant.  They  walked  on  without  speak- 
ing for  some  time,  until  he  began  to  talk  about  the  stars; 
and  as  Cissie  looked  up  she  came  stumbling  against  him, 
and  they  made  up  their  quarrel  with  only  a  little  laughter, 
and,  on  Cissie's  side,  a  few  unsuspected  tears.  Thereafter 
their  walk  was  one  of  a  softened,  affectionate  mood;  and 
their  parting,  in  a  dark  street  near  their  home,  was  more 
full  of  unspoken  feeling  than  ever  before. 

Even  when  they  had  said  good-night,  Cissie  came  back 
a  few  steps;  and  when  he  was  gone  Velancourt  stood  for 
several  minutes  looking  into  the  darkness  through  which 
she  had  passed.  If  he'd  only  been  able  to  show  her  how 
much  he  loved  her!  The  depth  of  her  eyes  haunted  him. 
Why  should  there  be  such  bitter  trivial  misunderstandings 
— the  fruit  of  vanity,  not  of  pride  or  nobility,  but  some  stu- 
pid impassable  barrier  which  prevented  communion?  If 
they  loved  one  another,  why  should  there  ever  be  anything 
wrong  between  them?  If  love  was  not  strong  enough  to 
conquer  the  sadness  of  imperfect  sympathy,  of  what  ac- 
count was  it?  The  night  gave  no  answer:  it  was  as  secret 
and  impenetrable  as  ever.  Was  no  friendship  or  love 
strong  enough  to  impose  clarity  of  sympathy  upon  friends 
or  lovers  ?  Was  there  never  true  union  of  spirits  ?  He  had 
shrunk  from  reports  of  matrimonial  troubles  in  the  news- 
papers :  his  view  of  marriage  was  the  Catholic  view.  He 
could  never  understand  why  the  sacred  bond,  the  tre- 
mendous intimacy  of  marriage,  gave  way  to  distrust  and 
quarrelling  and  hatred.    He  had  thought  always  that  those 


98  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

who  quarrelled  had  never  loved.  Yet  he  and  Cissie  had 
been  near  to  savage  retort;  he  was  conscious  that  he  could 
have  hated  Cissie.  Did  that  mean  he  did  not  love  her?  It 
was  impossible:  she  was  now  his  only  delight.  If  he  had 
not  loved  her,  his  fastidiousness  was  so  strong  that  he  could 
not  have  borne  to  touch  her;  and  to  touch  her  hand  was 
instantly  to  be  carried  into  a  wonderful  peace.  He  was  as 
far  as  ever  from  understanding  life :  it  only  offered  him 
another  series  of  puzzles,  impossible  to  solve  while  his  heart 
asked  and  his  eyes  sought  the  darkness  passionately  for  the 
remembrance  of  her  least  movement  in  the  far  distance. 


CHAPTER   XI 
FRIENDSHIP 


IT  was  a  dull  Sunday  morning,  and  everything-  seemed 
grey.  The  trees  Amberley  saw  were  melancholy  little 
limes,  and  their  leaves  were  turning  a  jaundiced  yellow; 
the  creeper  alone  was  brilliant,  falling  and  hanging  in  red 
splashes  that  were  neither  crimson  nor  scarlet.  The  ground 
was  damp,  so  that  if  he  pressed  his  foot  hard  upon  it  earth 
adhered,  and  revealed  a  sort  of  subsoil  of  moist  particles. 
A  few  birds  chirped.  Amberley  was  undismayed  by  the 
general  air  of  lugubrious  jaded  sprightliness  which  weighed 
upon  most  spirits.  He  walked  through  Waterloo  Park,  and 
down  past  the  dismal  cemetery,  and  into  Parliament  Hill 
Fields.  He  went  right  up  Parliament  Hill,  turning  slowly 
round  at  the  top  to  appreciate  the  view  in  each  quarter. 
To  the  North  were  Highgate  Ponds,  and  the  rising  trees 
and  houses  above  them,  which  always  made  him  think  of 
a  Swiss  view.  To  the  East  the  view  was  a  nondescript,  to 
the  West  interesting  only  in  virtue  of  the  nearer  ground. 
To  the  South  there  was  a  general  wavering  haze  of  smoke 
above  the  wide  closely-packed  area  of  the  interior  suburbs. 
Beyond,  he  could  see  St.  Paul's  Cathedral ;  and  an  old  gen- 
tleman, straining  his  eyes  close  by,  was  trying  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  could  see  Westminster  Abbey. 

"My  darter,"  said  the  old  gentleman — speaking  like  the 
mother  in  "Tom-Tit-Tot" — "My  darter  have  seen  the 
Crystal  Palace  from  this  spot." 

99 


ioo  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"A  very  meritorious  performance,"  said  Amberley,  find- 
ing himself  addressed. 

"I  dare  say  you  don't  remember  '51,  when  that  were  in 
Hyde  Park,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"My  mother,  I  believe,  was  born  in  that  year,"  said  Am- 
berley. 

"There  now !  I  were  born  myself  the  year  after,"  said 
the  old  gentleman.  "But  my  mother  were  at  the  Exhibi- 
tion." He  chuckled  and  wheezed  himself  into  a  fit  of 
coughing. 

"You're  not  a  Londoner?"  asked  Amberley. 

"But  I'm  very  fond  of  London.  The  great  Thames  Em- 
bankment, and  the  Tower  Bridge,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"I'm  very  fond  of  them.  They're  great  things.  My  friends 
all  ask  me  about  them." 

"They  seem  quite  popular  in  the  Provinces,"  agreed  Am- 
berley.   "News  of  them  has  just  reached  the  country." 

"Aye.  London's  a  great  place.  D'ye  know  the  Strand? 
And  Buckingham  Palace?  And  the  Horse  Guards?  I've 
see'd  them  all." 

"You  may  be  said,"  admitted  Amberley,  "to  know  Lon- 
don thoroughly." 

"Aye.  There's  no  place  like  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"My  darter  lives  here.  She  married  a  Londoner.  She  lives 
in  one  of  those  roads  down  there.  She  told  me  I  should 
see  them  flying  kites  up  here.    Old  gentlemen  like  myself." 

"They  are  very  often  to  be  seen." 

"That's  a  wonderful  sight." 

"You'll  find  other  middle-aged  sportsmen  sailing  toy 
yachts  on  the  ponds  down  there,"  said  Amberley,  kindly, 
pointing  down.  "They  dress  in  yachting  costume  to 
heighten  the  illusion." 

The  old  gentleman  manifested  considerable  excitement. 

"Is  that  so!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You  may  not  play  any  healthy  game  here 
on  a  Sunday ;  but  you  may  sail  yachts  and  fly  kites,  because 
those  are  pastimes  worthy  of  the  Sabbath." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  101 

The  old  gentleman  looked  afraid  and  uncomfortable ;  he 
began  to  think  Amberley  was  a  lunatic. 

"Well,  good  mornin',"  he  said.  "Good  mornin',  sir."  He 
took  sidling  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  ponds. 

It  was  then,  as  he  moved  away,  that  Amberley  perceived 
Velancourt  walking  rapidly  up  the  hill,  with  a  soft  flush  ris- 
ing to  his  cheeks  as  a  result  of  the  exercise,  and  his  eyes 
shining. 

"Even  old  gentlemen  have  their  uses,"  Amberley  rumi- 
nated ;  "when  they  bring  about  meetings  between  such  folk 
as  Velancourt  and  myself."  He  moved  to  intercept  Velan- 
court, who  had  not  seen  him. 


II 

"Velancourt !" 

"Oh,  Amberley!"  Velancourt  blinked,  and  his  flush 
deepened.     "I  didn't  see  you." 

"The  faster  you  go,  the  less  you  see.  .  .  .  Take  for  ex- 
ample the  motorist.  His  talk's  only  the  tale  of  his  mileage 
and  the  places  where  he  had  his  meals." 

"I  was  thinking  ...  I  hardly  knew  where  I  was." 

"Why  not  walk  a  little  way  with  me?" 

Velancourt  sighed.  Then  a  profound  thankfulness  came 
upon  him.  His  feelings  towards  Amberley  were  very 
mixed ;  but  of  his  shrewdness  and  his  honesty  he  never 
doubted.    They  moved  away  together. 

"How's  business  ?"  Amberley  asked.    "We're  very  busy." 

"I  .  .  .  don't  think  we're  very  busy.  We  never  are,  you 
know.  Somehow  I've  been  very  busy."  He  fell  silent 
again.  In  repose  his  face  looked  almost  tragic.  Amber- 
ley looked  aside  at  him,  and  saw  that  his  mouth  drooped; 
when  their  eyes  once  encountered  he  saw  that  Velancourt's 
pupils  were  very  large — brimming  almost,  it  appeared,  to 
the  edge  of  the  iris. 

"Strain,  of  some  sort,"  he  thought.     "What's  he  been 


102  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

doing?"  He  brought  out  his  pipe.  "See,  you  don't  smoke, 
do  you?"  Velancourt  shook  his  head.  "Very  good  for  the 
nerves.    What  they  call,  sedative." 

Velancourt's  grave  face  relaxed  into  a  smile  that  served 
only  to  accentuate  his  illness. 

"You've  told  me  before,"  he  said,  gently ;  and  made  Am- 
berley  laugh.  But  all  the  time  Amberley's  mind  was  going 
round  all  the  possibilities  of  whose  influence  he  could  con- 
jecture. 

"You're  not  looking  very  grand,"  he  ventured.  "You've 
been  over-working.  You  ought  to  take  care.  D'you  get 
exercise  ?" 

"Plenty.  I'm  really  all  right."  Velancourt  was  quite 
short,  in  a  moment. 

"Not  with  that  colour  and  those  eyes,"  thought  Amber- 
ley.  "Well,  it's  no  business  of  mine."  He  could  not  have 
uttered  the  comment.  But,  just  as  the  moment  was  almost 
past,  he  bolted  back  into  the  subject.  "I  don't  want  to  be 
a  busy-body,  Velancourt ;  but  you  really  look  ill.  No — wait 
a  minute !  I'm  not  being  inquisitive :  I'm  only  trying  to 
warn  you  that  if  you  put  on  too  much  strain  your  nerves 
will  go.     You'll " 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  listen  to  you,"  Velancourt 
cried,  in  a  gust  of  passion.  "It's  no  business  of  yours.  I'm 
.  .  ."  The  words  faded.  "I'm  sorry,  Amberley.  I  beg 
your  pardon.    I  haven't  slept  well." 

"So  long  as  you  resist  any  sort  of  good  feeling,  you'll  be 
lonely,"  Amberley  said,  frankly.  "I  don't  want  to  force 
myself  on  you:  I've  never  done  it  to  anybody  else.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that — if  you'll  forgive  me  for  putting  it  in 
such  a  way — you  shut  out  anybody  else  from  your  life. 
You  can't  have  friends  if  you  withdraw  from  them.  You 
surely  must  know  that  your  manner  to  me  would  have 
frightened  off"  anybody  but  myself.  It's  been  as  though  I 
perpetually  sweated  for  the  sake  of  being  snubbed." 

"I'm  sorry,  Amberley."  Velancourt's  eyes  were  averted. 
He  seemed  idly  to  be  watching  the  straggle  of  wandering 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  103 

men  and  girls,  and  the  tattered  bunches  of  leaves  hanging 
dead  in  the  weary  trees. 

"The  inference  has  been  that  you  didn't  like  me.  Very 
likely  that's  so.  But  I  don't  think  it  is.  You  don't  know 
me — you  won't.  And  yet  I  think  that  really  a  good  friend 
would  do  you  more  good  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
And  I  should  have  thought  that  a  man  who  risked  snubs — 
even  if  he's  a  Boswell — would  be  at  any  rate  a  diversion.  I 
haven't  sought  you  out:  I've  simply  offered  you  my  friend- 
ship because  you  won't  respond.  Now  I've  been  explicit 
because  I  think  you  need  a  friend.  I  tell  you,  a  friend  is 
here." 

"Oh  my  dear  God !"  Velancourt  was  whispering  to  him- 
self. Then,  aloud,  he  cried  passionately  in  a  strangled 
voice :    "Oh,  why  couldn't  you  have  spoken  a  month  ago !" 


Ill 

Amberley,  who  would  have  smiled  but  for  the  glimpse 
he  had  of  a  marble  face,  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  The 
wild  unreasoning  cry  showed  him  too  much  of  the  an- 
guished heart  that  had  cherished  its  pain  in  silence.  It 
filled  his  own  heart  with  a  sympathy  that  was  almost,  but 
not  quite  pity;  he  was  penetrated  as  though  with  a  deep 
understanding. 

"You  know,  you  wouldn't  have  let  me,"  he  urged.  "And 
in  any  case  I've  never  had  an  opportunity  before  to-day." 

With  a  great  effort  Velancourt  recovered  his  outward 
calm.  For  a  moment  his  hands  were  clenched,  and  his  teeth 
met  sharply.  His  voice,  when  next  he  spoke,  was  unsteady ; 
but  he  articulated  very  clearly,  and  the  loss  of  control  had 
obviously  been  due  only  to  a  momentary  loss  of  nerve.  He 
was  again  quite  dignified ;  but  he  looked  at  Amberley  with 
a  new  kindness.  He  had  felt  ill  and  restless,  but  he  had  not 
been  actively  unhappy.  Somehow  the  kindness  of  Amber- 
ley's  quiet  voice  had  broken  down  his  calm,  as  an  excited 


104  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

girl  may  cry  without  apparent  reason,  simply  from  a  realised 
contact  with  a  different  nature,  or  even  a  different  mood. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "it's  nothing.  I  shouldn't  have  acted 
differently.  Only,  if  you'd  known  how  I've  felt — as  though 
I'd  been  discarded,  and  lost.  But  not  wholly  that.  I've  been 
very  happy.  I've  been  perfectly  happy," — he  was  persuad- 
ing himself — "but  in  the  last  month  I've  seemed  to  waken 
up,  and  to  discover  my  own  loneliness.  That's  what  I 
meant — nothing  else.  I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  Amberley. 
But  I'm  so  afraid  that  there's  nothing  in  me  for  a  friend  to 
like.  I  feel  out  of  it— distrustful.  I  can't  feel  that  I  can 
talk  to  you  about  anything  but  myself." 

"The  great  thing  in  friendship,"  said  Amberley,  "is  not 
to  talk  about  one's  self." 

"Are  you  such  a  friend,  then  ?" 

"Well,  if  one  talks,  the  other  can't.  You  may  tell  me 
about  yourself ;  and  then  I'll  talk  to  you  about  the  mysteries 
of  life." 

"The  mysteries  of  life!"  ejaculated  Velancourt.  "Why, 
what  do  you  know  about  them?" 

"The  egoism  of  the  man!"  cried  Amberley.     "As  much 
as  you  or  anybody  else." 
"You  mean — nothing?" 

"I  mean,  evidently,  as  much  as  you;  because  very  few 
people  realise  they  know  nothing." 

"That  doesn't  help  at  all,"  Velancourt  said.  "That  sort 
of  talk." 

"Well,  then :  you  may  talk  to  me  about  the  mysteries  of 
life,"  said  Amberley.  And  there  was  a  very  deep  smile  in 
his  eyes,  because  he  felt  the  sense  of  power.  Just  in  Velan- 
court's  boyish  arrogance,  Amberley  found  his  own  pro- 
found humility  shining  like  a  pearl  of  wisdom.  "But  mean- 
while tell  me  about  yourself,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
our  meeting  on  Parliament  Hill.  I  call  you  to  witness  as  a 
fact,  for  the  confusion  of  women-novelists,  that  we  have 
not  gripped  hands.     I  don't  propose  to  grip  your  hand.     I 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  105 

am  proposing  to  be  your  friend — not  your  brotherly  Sun- 
day-school teacher." 

Velancourt  laughed  suddenly.  It  was  a  strange  unprac- 
tised laugh,  for  he  did  not  seem  ever  to  have  laughed  before. 
It  was  a  very  small,  short  laugh — as  small  and  short  as  the 
sound  of  half  a  dozen  coins  dropped  singly  from  one  hand 
to  another.  The  harassed  look  had  disappeared  from  his 
eyes :  he  walked  freely,  swinging  his  arms,  with  his  head 
in  the  air. 

"About  myself,"  he  said,  in  a  manner  almost  gay,  "there's 
nothing  to  tell.  I'm  twenty-six.  I  was  born  in  Wiltshire, 
at  Bradford-on-Avon.  I  came  to  London  very  long  ago. 
I'm  a  clerk  in  an  office  on  the  same  staircase  as  yourself. 
Reading  is  my  great  pleasure.  And  I  have  just  made  my 
first  friend,  very  gladly." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Amberley. 

"Oh — and  I'm  going  to  be  married  next  Saturday." 

"Well  I'm  damned !"  Amberley  was  surprised  for  the 
first  and  only  time  in  his  life. 

"And  I  wonder,"  said  Velancourt,  turning  pleadingly  to 
his  new  friend.  "Would  you — I  wonder,  could  you — be 
my  witness  ?    It's  at  the  Camden  Town  Register  Office." 


CHAPTER   XII 

BRIGHTON 


IT  was  over !  Amberley  had  taken  him  to  lunch,  and  they 
had  gone  to  Camden  Town  together,  and  there  found 
Cissie  and  Elsie  and  another  girl.  And  they  had  parted 
again  at  Camden  Town  Station — Amberley  to  go  home 
groaning;  Elsie  and  her  friend  to  go  to  Elsie's  flat,  and 
Cissie  and  Velancourt,  married,  to  go  to  Brighton.  For  all 
his  dislike  of  hand-shaking,  Amberley  had  held  Velancourt's 
hand  firmly  for  a  second,  and  their  eyes  had  met  quite 
straight  and  clear.  How  much  friendship  Amberley  had 
conveyed  by  that  he  did  not  know :  friendship  was  a  pre- 
carious enough  thing,  a  thing  that  thrived  best  unexam- 
ined. So  he  was  persistently  cheerful;  and  he  had  his  re- 
ward in  Cissie's  smiling  face.  She  said,  in  the  Tube  train, 
"I  like  that  friend  of  yours.  He's  nice."  Velancourt  only 
smiled :  he  was  too  excited  to  talk.  The  heart  of  each  was 
beating  very  fast;  but  Cissie  felt  that  her  face  was  tired 
with  smiling.  She  said,  "Smile  that  won't  come  off.  Wish 
it  would !"  Her  hand  was  tucked  under  his  arm,  snug  and 
pleasant ;  and  she  felt  that  she  didn't  mind  if  all  the  people 
in  the  carriage  knew  she  was  married.  She  was  married ! 
The  train  jogged  out  the  words  "Mrs.  Adrian  Velancourt." 
Just  once  it  jogged  "Lady  Velancourt,"  which  made  her 
shiver  ecstatically.  It  seemed  such  a  grand  name,  in  a  way. 
"Different  to  Jenkins,"  she  thought.    "It's  a  swanky  name. 

1 06 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  107 

You  ought  to  have  a  big  house  and  servants  with  that 
name." 

But  then  Adrian  himself  was  rather  grand.  He  was  deli- 
cate, like  a  woman.  He  had  such  soft  skin;  and  his  eye- 
lashes were  as  long  as  her  own,  and  looked  longer,  from 
being  so  dark.  His  nose  was  long  and  straight;  and  his  lips 
were  rather  full.  His  eyes  were  very  large  and  bright. 
They  were  lovely  eyes,  she  thought.  His  hands  were  not 
small,  but  were  very  long  and  thin,  as  the  hands  of  a  musi- 
cian might  be.  She  ached  to  set  his  tie  straight ;  it  was  all 
crooked,  as  it  too  often  was.  The  worst  of  not  having  a 
wife  to  look  after  him!  She  sighed  heavily.  She  wondered 
what  he  thought  about;  then  she  noticed  a  young  fellow 
down  the  carriage  staring  at  her.  Saucy!  She  looked  at 
him.  She  couldn't  help  looking  at  him.  Somehow  every 
few  minutes  she  had  to  look  and  see  if  he  was  still  looking. 
And  when  he  was  she  brought  her  eyes  away  only  to  find 
irresistible  the  desire  to  look  again.  She  wondered  if  she 
was  looking  pretty.  Just  sometimes  her  face  had  a  little 
look  of  fatness — it  shocked  her.  It  was  only  passing;  but 
she  prayed  never  to  be  stout.  That  would  never  do :  she'd 
never  keep  him  if  she  was  to  get  stout :  he  wouldn't  look 
at  her.    Adrian,  she  meant :   not  that  other  man. 

At  Charing  Cross  they  changed  for  Victoria;  and  pres- 
ently were  in  the  train  for  Brighton.  They  were  left  much 
alone,  and  Cissie  hoped  against  every  fear  that  they  might 
remain  so;  but  a  formidable  and  disagreeable-looking  lady 
flounced  into  the  carriage  and  stared  at  them  to  show  how 
unimportant  they  were,  and  the  journey  was  spoiled.  The 
lady  lost  her  ticket  before  they  started,  which  made  Cissie 
feel  tremendously  amused.  Presently,  however,  the  ticket 
was  found ;  and  the  door  was  shut ;  and  a  whistle  blew ; 
and  the  station  seemed  to  move  very  slowly  and  gently 
away  from  them.  Cissie  started,  and  leant  back,  holding 
her  breath  until  she  was  almost  suffocated.  She  was  mar- 
ried! They  were  off!  Nobody  could  catch  her  now! 
They'd  never  catch  her:    she  was  going  home  on  Monday 


108  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

afternoon,  to  see  her  mother.  She  dreaded  that;  but  she 
bridled  at  her  power.  She  would  no  longer  be  at  a  disad- 
vantage; she  was  a  married  woman,  just  as  her  mother 
was.  She  felt  already  a  strange  contempt  for  the  formida- 
ble lady  opposite;  for  the  lady,  who  wore  several  rings 
upon  her  engagement  finger,  for  the  purpose  of  dazzling 
the  eye  and  bewildering  the  judgment,  had  no  plain  gold 
ring.  She  was  not  married.  She  was  not  married ;  and 
Cissie  was  her  superior.  She  smiled  scornfully  across  at 
the  unmarried  lady.  Poor  thing!  She  probably  wasn't 
even  engaged,  but  was  only  pretending. 

The  houses  began  to  stream  past,  as  grey  as  a  kinema 
film  in  the  dull  afternoon  light.  Then  came  open  green 
spaces,  and  more  houses.  Croydon :  Cissie  had  heard  of 
that  place.  Then  green  fields,  and  more  green  fields,  and 
half-naked  trees,  and  sometimes  a  shrill  whistle  from  the 
engine,  and  cows  feeding,  and  boards  advertising  foods  and 
laxatives,  and  some  boards  saying  the  number  of  miles 
from  London — she  saw  the  number  mounting  from  twenty- 
one  to  twenty-five,  and  twenty-seven.  .  .  .  She  watched 
some  black  birds  flying  in  a  flock — she  couldn't  tell  if  they 
were  rooks  or  crows,  and  Adrian  was  half  asleep  or  some- 
thing, for  they  were  gone  before  he  understood  what  was 
exciting  her ;  and  some  men  playing  football ;  and  once  a 
level-crossing,  with  a  big  motor-car  waiting  for  the  train 
to  pass ;  and  then  the  sides  of  the  railway  cutting  grew 
steep  and  chalky;  and  a  windmill  was  to  be  seen  very  far 
off — too  far  for  her  to  be  sure  if  it  was  going  round ;  and 
then  high  land,  and  a  long  and  wonderful  stretch  of  chalk- 
cutting.  And  all  this  time  the  farther  landscape  was  danc- 
ing past,  as  though  it  were  turning  in  a  slow  circle  round 
the  train;  and  the  ground  near  by  seemed  to  her  to  be  just 
like  the  kinema  pictures,  racing  grittily  along,  as  funda- 
mentally unstable.  The  telegraph  wires  made  her  dizzy  as 
she  tried  to  keep  her  eye  on  them.  They  swooped  down, 
and  ran  along,  and  then  suddenly  up  to  the  top  of  a  pole; 
and  down  again,  and  then  again  up;  until  she  felt  that  her 


ON   THE    STAIRCASE  109 

eyes  were  squinting,  and  as  though  they  were  locked  to- 
gether with  a  perpetual  cast  in  them.  And  Velancourt's 
hand  held  hers  tightly  all  the  time,  and  her  shoulder  was 
behind  and  against  his. 

And  then  suddenly  it  seemed  as  though  a  mist  had  been 
removed.  The  green  seemed  still  to  run  up  to  the  horizon 
on  either  side;  but  Cissie  felt  they  were  suddenly  coming 
to  London  again.  Roofs  and  roofs  and  roofs  lay  in  tiers 
right  up  a  hill  on  the  left  of  them ;  grey  roofs.  And  farther 
was  green  again.  But  the  roofs  continued;  and  the  train 
slid  easily  over  the  points,  and  a  station-covering  of  glass 
and  iron  was  over  their  heads.  There  were  cabs  there — 
open,  horse-drawn  flies — and  millions  of  porters;  and  a 
clanking,  and  the  whirring  of  an  unexpected  motor;  and 
they  were  there,  out  on  the  platform,  stranded,  derelict,  for- 
lorn, clinging  to  each  other  in  the  marvellous  knowledge 
that  this  was  their  destination.  They  were  in  Brighton. 
The  scent  of  the  air  was  different;  the  feel  of  everything 
was  different.  Life  was  different.  They  were  married; 
their  honeymoon  was  begun. 

II 

They  went  out  of  the  station,  Adrian  carrying  their  lug- 
gage, and  Cissie  clinging  to  his  arm.  Before  them  was  a 
long,  straight,  descending  road;  and  it  was  nearly  dark. 
The  road  became  busier  and  like  a  London  market.  Hun- 
dreds of  people  rushed  along,  on  the  pavement  and  all 
across  the  road.    And  then  : 

"There  it  is !"  cried  Cissie.  A  streak  of  somehow  magical 
grey  showed  under  a  dark  line  before  them.  Upon  their 
ears  beat  the  sound  of  the  sea.  Velancourt  had  never  seen 
the  sea  before;  he  forgot  everything  else.  He  forgot  the 
people,  he  forgot  Cissie.  He  strode  forward.  There  was 
an  endless  stone  and  asphalt  pavement,  and  an  iron  rail 
that  ran,  as  it  seemed,  unbroken  from  end  to  end  of  the  sea- 
front.    People  walked  quickly  along  in  the  chill  air.    Below 


no  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

was  a  confused  medley  of  boats  and  wooden  structures 
which  he  afterwards  knew  to  be  bathing  machines.  But 
what  held  his  eye  was  the  grey  moving  sea;  and  what 
choked  his  breath  and  made  his  heart  beat  was  the  great 
fresh  breeze  that  came  over  the  sea.  His  head  was  thrown 
back  .  .  .  every  other  magnificent  space,  from  Salisbury 
Plain,  very  dimly  remembered  as  a  vast  illimitable  wonder, 
to  Hampstead  Heath,  which  at  night  had  seemed  as  wide 
as  the  earth,  was  made  petty  by  this  extraordinary  sense  of 
openness.  It  filled  him  with  a  triumph  and  fearlessness 
such  as  he  had  never  known.  He  felt  as  a  man  might  feel 
who  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  world  and  looked  bravely 
out  into  infinite  distance,  with  nothing  to  fear  and  every 
venture  to  be  won. 

"Fine,  isn't  it!"  said  Cissie,  in  a  hushed  voice.  "But  it's 
rather  cold." 

He  looked  down  at  her  little  pink  nose  and  cheeks  pale 
with  the  biting  wind ;  and  his  mood  softened  at  once.  How 
patient  she  had  been!     And  uncomplaining! 

"I'd  forgotten,"  he  answered.    "You're  quite  frozen !" 

They  walked  very  fast  for  a  few  moments,  and  as  they 
walked  the  Palace  Pier  began  to  start  into  the  brilliance 
of  all  its  tiny  coruscating  electric  lamps.  Cissie  stopped  at 
the  splendour,  and  pressed  his  arm. 

"There !"  she  cried.    "That's  the  best  thing  in  Brighton." 

"It's  vulgar !"  he  said.    "I  can't  really  admire  it." 

"Adrian!    It's  fine." 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  rather  striking."  He  wanted  not  to 
hurt  her  delicate  feelings. 

"You  are  horrible  not  to  like  it."  She  spoke  in  a  senti- 
mental lingering  tone.  "I  thought  you'd  like  it.  You're 
only  pretending  not  to  like  it." 

"The  sea  was  so  much  grander,"  he  urged,  trying  to  be 
simple  and  yet  to  compromise  with  his  own  candour. 

"I  don't  think  so.    Damp  cold  old  sea." 

"But  my  dear !"    He  began  to  expostulate. 

"Oh,  don't!" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  in 

Cissie  was  chilled  and  nervous,  and  the  lights  seemed 
cheerful :  and  she  felt  terrible  lonely,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
be  coaxed  and  comforted.  And  Velancourt  himself  wanted 
a  different  sort  of  coaxing.  So  they  both,  for  a  moment, 
felt  exceedingly  disappointed  and  disagreeable. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me  ?"  she  presently  asked,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice. 

"How  can  you  be  so  silly?  I  couldn't  be  angry  to-day. 
Could  you?" 

"I  don't  know."    It  was  a  whisper. 

"What  day  is  this?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  yourself." 

"It's  our  wedding-day." 

"Oh!"  Cissie  gave  a  little  gulping  laugh.  "It's  ages 
ago." 

"Three  hours."  He  was  trying  to  seem  as  practical  as 
herself ;  and  so  became  humourless. 

They  were  past  the  pier  now,  and  had  turned  into  the 
street  where  their  lodging  lay. 

"And  I'm Oh,  tell  me !" 

Velancourt  was  hesitant  now.  With  a  great  assumption 
of  ease  he  hurried  the  words  out. 

"Oh  you're  my  little  wife,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"I  didn't  hear!"  said  Cissie. 

"You  did." 

"Say  it  again.    Over  and  over  again." 

They  reached  the  house.  In  the  window  was  a  grue- 
some board.    It  said  "Apartments." 


Ill 

The  landlady  was  a  hideous  woman,  with  one  eye. 
Velancourt  thought  she  looked  like  a  witch.  She  led  them 
indoors,  to  a  sitting-room  which  had  the  atmosphere  of  a 
cellar.  The  furniture  was  all  covered  with  American  cloth, 
and  every  spring  in  every  chair  was  broken.    The  room  was 


H2  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

brooded  over  by  a  memorial  card  referring  to  the  landlady's 
late  husband.  It  was  a  melancholy  room;  and  a  battered 
fire-screen  with  shavings  behind  it  killed  their  hope  of  a 
fire.  Neither  had  the  courage  to  ask  for  a  fire — Velan- 
court  because  he  shrank  from  looking  at  or  speaking  to 
the  ogress ;  Cissie  because  she  knew  it  would  be  "extra." 
The  table  was  laid,  so  Cissie  examined  what  was  on  it. 
There  was  thick  bread,  with  very  thin  butter  on  it;  and 
three  half-hearted  pieces  of  cake.  Cissie  held  up  one  of 
the  cups,  and  wiped  it  with  the  table-cloth.  They  both  felt 
very  shy  of  each  other  before  the  tea  came ;  but  when  Cissie 
had  taken  off  her  coat  and  hat,  and  when  she  held  the  tea- 
pot on  high,  watching  the  fainting  tea  emerge  tremulously 
from  the  choked  spout,  she  looked  so  entirely  adorable  that 
Velancourt  was  forced  to  approach  her. 

"You'll  make  me  spill  it!"  she  cried;  and  when  he  re- 
tired discomfited  both  were  made  miserable.  Instead  of 
passing  the  tea,  she  brought  it  to  him,  and  they  kissed  and 
were  happy  again.  "You  were  a  silly !"  she  said.  "As  if  it 
mattered  about  that  dirty  old  cloth.  Shouldn't  think  it  had 
been  washed  since  the  flood !" 

"Perhaps  not  since  August,"  he  suggested. 

"She  lets  to  actors.  The  food's  sure  to  be  pretty  good. 
It's  a  clean  place,  too ;  but  she  doesn't  dry  the  cups  properly. 
Different  to  me !  If  I  see  a  cup  dirty  I  have  to  clean  it — 
have  to.  Mother's  always  been  very  particular.  She  used 
to  slap  my  hands  whenever  I  didn't  dry  properly.  It's  as 
easy  as  easy,  when  you're  awake.  This  old  tot's  half  asleep. 
Elsie's  been  here.     She  knows.     She  told  me  about  it." 

"Did  she" — Velancourt's  heart  sank — "did  she  come  here 
.  .  ."  He  couldn't  ask.  It  was  too  degraded,  too  unbe- 
lievable. 

"Course  she  came  here.  Oh  .  .  .  I  see  what  you  mean. 
They  had  a  week,  though.  They  were  married  in  July, 
when  he  had  his  summer  holidays.  Wish  we  could  have  a 
week.  I  don't  mind  really ;  only  a  week's  nice."  She  some- 
times had  a  little  felt  inclined  to  envy  Elsie  her  longer 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  113 

honeymoon ;  but  it  was  no  use  crying  for  the — honeymoon. 

Velancourt  was  very  quiet.  He  wished  to  God  she  would 
stop  talking  for  a  moment.  It  was  frightful !  To  think  of 
that  horrible  ...  To  think  that  Cissie  could  bear  to  come 
to  a  place  where  that  bounder  had  been.  He  could  im- 
agine Bert  in  every  part  of  the  room.  He  could  hear  his 
cheap  voice  in  the  air.  "See  what  I  mean?"  Somehow  it 
revolted  him  that  Cissie  could  be  so  insensible  to  the  horror 
of  it.  If  he  had  known,  he  would  have  refused  to  come. 
It  made  the  place  as  hideous  to  him  as  a  slaughter-house. 

"More  tea,  dear?  Why,  you're  not  drinking  it.  I  be- 
lieve you're  in  love!"  Cissie  laughed  to  herself  gigglingly. 
The  words  "in  love"  had  a  peculiar  potency :  they  always 
had  had  that  potency.  Although  recurrent,  they  were  never 
unwelcome.  Age  could  not  wither,  nor  custom  stale,  their 
infinite  appropriateness  to  any  absence  of  mind,  or  eccen- 
tricity, or  confusion,  or  unlooked-for  gaiety. 

Velancourt  drank  his  tea.  He  could  not  tell  her  what 
was  in  his  mind.  She  would  not  have  understood,  and  she 
would  only  have  been  miserable  at  the  thought  that  he  was 
somehow  displeased. 

"What  shall  we  do  after  tea?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  put  on  my  wrap  under  my  coat ;  and  we'll  go  on  the 
front.     Might  go  on  the  pier." 

"Could  we  walk  along  by  the  sea?" 

"You  are  mean !"  She  pretended  to  think  that  he  dreaded 
the  pier-toll. 

"Whatever  you  like,  then,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"Oh,  you  are  a  boy!  Can't  you  take  a  joke?  We'll  go 
to  Hove,  all  along  the  front !"  She  spoke  with  a  superficial 
contempt  that  wounded  him  and  made  him  shrink  back  into 
himself.  But  when  the  tea  was  finished,  and  they  had  told 
the  landlady  to  lay  the  supper  for  nine  o'clock,  it  was  a 
wonderful  task  for  Adrian  to  wrap  Cissie  in  a  big  woollen 
muffler  that  went  round  her  neck,  and  crossed  on  her 
breast,  and  went  under  her  arms  and  back  round  her  waist 
before  its  extraordinary  convolutions  were  ended  by  the 


114  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

failure  of  its  apparent  endlessness.  He  fastened  it  with  a 
brooch,  and  helped  her  into  her  long  coat  again. 

"This  ought  to  be  thicker,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption 
of  matter-of-fact  husbandliness. 

"Perhaps  you'll  give  me  one,"  she  answered,  pertly. 

"I  wish  I'd  given  you  that  instead  of  the  bracelet." 

"Oh,  you  old  stodgy!"  she  cried. 

They  slammed  the  door  and  went  forth  again  to  battle 
with  the  wind.  It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  the  salt  air 
made  their  cheeks  tingle,  so  that  Cissie  laughed  and 
clutched  him. 

"It  catches  my  dress !''  she  cried.  She  could  hardly  walk 
at  first,  until  she  was  used  to  the  wind's  resistance;  and 
then  they  went  panting  down  to  the  front,  and  held  to  the 
railings,  watching  the  white  crests  of  the  waves  far  out; 
and  the  clouds  flying  across  the  moon's  face.  There  were 
no  boats  visible  now,  and  the  edge  of  the  moon  was  suspi- 
ciously soft  and  tearful.  Cissie's  skirt  was  caught  by  the 
wind  so  that  it  clung  to  Velancourt's  legs,  and  they  held 
each  other  tightly,  hand  to  hand,  arm  within  arm,  so  as  to 
offer  a  united  front  to  the  tempestuous  breeze. 


IV 

The  wind,  and  the  threat  of  rain,  had  driven  many  visi- 
tors to  shelter;  and  beyond  the  West  Pier  the  wide  pave- 
ment was  almost  deserted.  A  few  people  were  blown  along, 
bending  forward  or  backward  to  balance  themselves,  and 
too  much  absorbed  in  retaining  their  own  possessions  to 
trouble  about  other  passengers.  Cissie  held  Velancourt's 
arm  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  tried  vainly  to  keep 
her  hat  from  twitching  and  wriggling  her  hair-pins  loose. 
Every  now  and  then  they  were  forced  to  turn  their  backs 
upon  the  wind,  to  get  their  breath  and  to  begin  afresh. 
Velancourt  felt  exhilarated :  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  hat 
and  skirt  Cissie  also  would  have  enjoyed  the  walk ;  but  she 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  115 

felt  battered  and  exhausted.  They  went  on  right  to  the  end 
of  the  Hove  and  Brunswick  Lawns,  and  then,  quite  worn 
out  by  the  struggle,  collapsed  upon  a  wind-screened  seat, 
with  their  backs  to  the  sea  and  to  the  wind. 

"It's  splendid,  splendid !"  cried  Velancourt. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you !"  Cissie  pouted.  "You're  a 
man." 

"I  wish  we  could  see  the  sea.    It's  white  with  foam." 

"Look  at  the  clouds,  boy !"  she  advised  him.  He  looked 
up.  Long  streaming  grey  clouds  were  being  blown  inland 
at  a  furious  speed,  some  of  them  lashed  to  fragments  even 
as  they  passed  overhead.  "They're  going  to  get  it  in  Lon- 
don to-morrow !"  she  laughed.  "Aren't  you  glad  you're  not 
there?  Just  think  of  father  grousing  and  mother  in  a 
paddy ;  and  the  rain  pouring." 

"You  ought  to  feel  sorry  for  them,"  Velancourt  said. 
"In  your  own  happiness." 

"What  a  funny  idea !  I  expect  that  'ud  make  them 
angrier — if  they  thought  I  was  being  sorry." 

"But  aren't  you  a  little  sorry?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I've  been  cooped  up  ever  since  Elsie  was 
married.  If  you'd  been  cooped  up  like  I  have,  you'd  be 
glad.     I  don't  believe  you're  a  bit  happy  because  we're 

"I'm  so  happy  I  can't  talk." 

"Really  happy?"  Cissie  put  her  face  up.  "Nobody  can 
see."  They  were  quiet  for  a  moment,  until  Cissie  shud- 
dered. "Oosh !"  she  said.  "Somebody  walking  on  my 
grave."  Then,  as  he  did  not  smile,  "Old  solemn-sticks !" 
she  added.  "I  don't  believe  you  love  me  a  little  bit,  and  I 
believe  you  wish  we  hadn't  come,  and  want  to  go  back  and 
get  mother  to  look  after  you.  .  .  ."  When  he  remained 
quiet,  she  began  to  believe  what  she  had  said,  and  by  her 
sniffing  breath  he  became  aware  that  she  was  crying  quietly 
to  herself. 

"Why  Cissie.  .  .  .     What  is  it,  my  dearie?" 

"Go  away !"    She  suffered  him  to  put  his  arm  round  her 


n6  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

and  to  hold  her  close  until  the  tears  had  given  way  to  rare 
quivering  gulps ;  and  then  she  kissed  him  passionately. 
"Oh,  let's  go  in,  let's  go  in!"  she  cried.  "I'm  so  cold  and 
tired !"  As  they  rose,  to  endure  afresh  the  obstreperous 
breeze,  Cissie  bethought  herself  of  the  fact  that  if  they 
went  back  by  the  inland  roads  they  would  be  more  shel- 
tered. "You  might  have  thought  of  that,"  she  said,  in  a 
teacher-ish  way. 

"Why  can't  I  think  of  these  things?"  Velancourt  won- 
dered. She  made  him  feel  such  an  amateur,  by  thinking 
first  of  precautions  that  he  might  have  taken  on  her  behalf. 
It  did  not  occur  to  either  of  them  that  the  reason  lay  in  his 
own  passionate  desire  (which  amounted  almost  to  a  mo- 
mentary obsession)  to  be  near  the  sea,  to  hear  it,  to  feel 
the  salt  of  it,  and  to  exult  in  a  freedom  so  rare  and  so  en- 
tirely untrammelled. 


They  hurried  back  through  the  town  to  their  lodging; 
where  they  found  supper  not  yet  ready.  As  it  had  been 
ordered  for  nine  o'clock,  and  as  it  was  now  barely  half- 
past  seven,  the  blank  eye  of  the  landlady  was  perhaps  not 
surprising.  But  Cissie  was  glad  to  be  able  to  tidy  her  hair 
and  to  find  a  refuge  from  the  ravaging  wind ;  and  pres- 
ently she  came  back  into  their  sitting-room  as  fresh  as  ever. 
The  air  had  brought  a  great  colour  into  her  cheeks,  but  the 
slight  absence  from  Velancourt  made  her  self-conscious  at 
their  reunion. 

"You  look  as  white  as  white!"  she  said.  "You  looked 
quite  red  when  we  came  in.  What's  the  matter?"  She 
came  over  beside  him,  so  that  he  looked  up  into  her  face : 
then  she  stooped  to  kiss  him.  "Old  dear,  you  are."  She 
knelt  by  his  side,  with  her  elbows  on  his  knees  and  her  face 
on  her  hands. 

"Well,  however  I  look,  you  look   splendid,"   answered 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  117 

Velancourt.  He  added,  in  a  low  voice :  "And  that's  all  I 
care  about." 

"Yes,  well  what  about  me?  Oh  Adrian,  you  make  me 
miserable !  You  don't  think  about  me  at  all."  Their  eyes 
met ;  both  were  puzzled.  "Can't  make  you  out,  sometimes. 
I  don't  believe  you  love  me." 

"Cissie.  .  .  .    That's  really  blasphemy !"  he  protested. 

"Why  can't  you  be  more  like  other  men?" 

"Aren't  I  ?"    His  heart  sank. 

"Not  a  bit.  That's  what  makes  me  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  fond 
of  you.    Didn't  you  know?" 

"You  don't  want  me  to  be  like  other  men?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  expect  I'm  silly.  I  want  you  to  be, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  be ;  and  I  want  you  to  say  you  love 
me  a  lot " 

"I  do!" 

"Love  me,  d'you  mean?  Or  say  it?  Oh,  I  don't  know." 
She  sighed,  staring  at  him.  "You  never  tell  me  about  any- 
thing. And — oh  my  dear,  I  don't  want  you  to.  I  only  want 
you."  She  pressed  her  flushed  face  against  his  arm,  and  his 
head  dropped  to  hers ;  and  they  seemed  swallowed  up  in  an 
eternal  silence  of  suspended  feeling,  their  hearts  beating,  all 
the  puzzles  for  the  moment  as  it  were  dead.  Adrian  was 
still  musing,  with  the  feel  of  her  soft  hair  upon  his  face — 
the  hair,  he  did  not  reflect,  which  so  recently  had  been 
tidied  and  made  smooth — when  a  muffled  voice  murmured : 
"It's  all  very  well  for  you;  but  I'm  kneeling  on  the  floor; 
and  I  think  my  ankles  will  break  if  I  don't  move!" 

Cissie  moved  her  head,  and  smiled  at  him,  her  eyes  swim- 
ming. He  changed  his  position,  brought  to  earth  by  the 
moment-destroying  speech.  He  only  looked  at  her  re- 
proachfully. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  help  it,  old  serious !  You  ought  to  see 
what  it  feels  like." 

They  both  stood  up — Cissie  in  a  sort  of  smiling,  happy 
intoxication;  Velancourt  with  the  feeling  that  it  was  all 
spoiled.    In  his  desire  to  catch  the  single  instant  of  happi- 


n8  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

ness  untinctured  by  pain,  he  had  forgotten  the  shortcom- 
ings of  physical  endurance.  As  she  hung  there,  only  wait- 
ing for  his  supporting  arms,  he  could  not  deny  her  the 
caress;  but  it  was  given  with  an  undercurrent  of  indig- 
nation that  Cissie  never  suspected.  Bitterly  he  remembered 
that  Bert  and  Elsie,  perhaps,  had  rehearsed  the  same  scene 
in  this  room.  It  was  not  the  least  part  of  his  bitterness 
that  he  felt  Bert  would  have  been  more  assured  than  him- 
self. He  remembered  the  loss  of  the  sea  to-night  ...  he 
remembered  the  jarring  speeches  about  her  mother  and 
father.  In  his  eyes  a  great  frown  of  fastidiousness  had 
gathered;  on  his  mouth  appeared  a  curious  strained  smile 
of  rebellion. 

Cissie  opened  her  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?  You're  sulky.  What  is  it?  Be- 
cause I  spoke  rudely,  was  it?  Diddums?  Or  wasn't  I 
lady I  only  said  ankles,  Adrian !" 

It  was  intolerable  to  him.  He  had  become  merely  ridicu- 
lous to  her  on  their  wedding-eve. 

"Cissie,  be  quiet!"  There  was  anger  in  his  voice.  He 
released  her. 

"I  never  meant  it  ...  I  never  meant  it!"  She  caught 
his  hands,  half-sobbing.  "You're  so  touchy  I  never  know 
what  I  may  say,  and  what  I  mustn't.  Adrian,  don't  spoil 
it  all.    It's  been  so  lovely  till  now." 

Her  arms  were  round  his  neck ;  and  her  little  pleading 
face  so  near,  that  he  was  helpless.  With  a  sudden  fierce- 
ness he  kissed  her  until  she  seemed  to  cling  to  him  in  a 
stupor,  helplessly.  She  was  so  sweet,  so  much  a  child, 
that  surely  he  was  cruel  to  resent  with  such  frigid  coldness 
these  failures  of  hers.  He  was  brutal,  the  horrible  prig  he 
always  had  dreaded  being. 

"I'm  horrible,"  he  whispered,  abjectly.  "I'm  not  half 
good  enough  for  you." 

"You're  splendid,"  she  answered,  in  a  dream.  "I'm  all 
love  for  you." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  119 


VI 

When  supper  was  done,  and  Cissie  had  left  him,  Velan- 
court  sat  over  the  table,  thinking.  What  a  full  day  it  had 
been,  after  all !  Amberley  had  been  splendid  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  and  the  horrors  of  the  register  office  had  been  less  than 
his  fears ;  the  journey  had  been  easily  made ;  and  all  was 
well.  All  that  was  wrong  was  his  own  nature.  How  could 
he  cure  it?  Was  it  curable?  There  was  all  the  sensitive- 
ness, the  fastidiousness,  the  melancholy  of  a  man  whose  na- 
ture should  lead  him  to  the  creation  of  beautiful  things. 
Velancourt  thought  that  he  might  be  such  a  man;  but  first 
he  must  understand  what  Amberley  called  the  mysteries  of 
life.  But  Amberley — presumably  in  a  silly  flippant  second — 
had  said :  "There  are  no  mysteries ;  there  are  only  charla- 
tans." Velancourt  did  not  believe  that.  He  wanted  to  un- 
derstand what  made  him  love  Cissie,  and  what  made  him 
recoil  from  some  of  the  things  she  stood  for  in  his  experi- 
ence. He  wanted  to  understand  what  seemed  to  him 
greater  mysteries  still — the  awe  of  distance,  the  sense  of 
God  in  all  things,  the  wondrous  ecstasy  produced  in  him 
by  the  multiform  beauties  of  art  and  nature.  Those  were 
the  things  he  wanted  to  understand.  They  were  there — 
somehow  they  were  in  his  heart. 

Amberley's  ideas  of  mystery  seemed  much  more  mun- 
dane :  he  seemed  to  think  that  psychology  was  the  most  im- 
mediate marvel — that  the  understandable  mysteries  were  of 
more  interest  than  the  mysteries  incomprehensible.  Yet  Am- 
berley had  read  the  mystics,  and  he  had  not  read  them :  he 
did  not  properly  understand  what  mysticism  was.  Amber- 
ley had  seemed  to  suggest,  even  in  their  two  hours'  talk  of 
Sunday,  that  Adrian  was  a  mystic ;  and  he  added  that  only 
the  critics  could  define  mysticism,  because  the  mystics  were 
too  busy  being  mystic.    Perhaps  that  was  it? 

But  then  mystics  were  those  who  lived  apart  from  the 
world,  while  Adrian  had  taken  to  himself  a  wife.     Surely 


120  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Cissie  was  a  mystic,  as  all  simple-minded  people  were.  Was 
Cissie  simple-minded?  He  seemed  to  find  at  last  an  expla- 
nation of  his  dubieties.  She  was  simple,  but,  as  the  old  say- 
ing said:  "Evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners." 
Bert  Tebber  was  the  serpent,  then,  in  that  Eden ! 

The  thought  of  Bert  destroyed  his  thoughtful  mood. 
Here,  in  this  room,  Bert  had  lived  a  week  of  his  hated  life 
with  Elsie.  Here,  thank  God !  Cissie  and  himself  would 
be  for  only  one  day  longer,  and  another  night.  Nervously 
his  fingers  interlaced :  he  now  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Cissie.  Cissie  was  his  life;  they  were  bound  indissolubly. 
He  wondered  what  lay  before  him  in  the  long  days  that 
were  to  follow. 

"Good  God!"  he  ejaculated  aloud,  staring  wildly  before 
him.     "I'm  married!" 

It  was  as  though  during  the  day  he  had  done  everything 
without  consciousness — with  some  vague  thought  of  the 
next  thing  to  be  done.  Only  now,  in  spite  of  all  his  ex- 
citements, did  the  bare  truth  seem  for  the  first  time  to  come 
home  to  him.  It  flung  aside  all  his  meandering  thoughts  of 
mysticism  and  the  mysteries  of  life.  He  almost  realised 
that  Cissie  was  one  of  the  greatest  mysteries  which  life 
had  so  far  allowed  him  to  glimpse. 


CHAPTER   XIII 
HADLEY   WOODS 


FROM  the  Amberleys'  flat  to  Barnet  and  Hadley  Woods 
was  the  merest  trifling  journey  by  a  red  and  white 
tramcar — in  summer  weather.  On  a  winter  day  it  took  an 
age  to  cover  the  distance.  In  the  early  Autumn  it  was  a 
pleasant  bracing  ride  of  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
and  the  warm  muffling  and  the  warm  sun  counteracted  the 
chill  of  the  air.  Susan  liked  going  with  her  brother :  the 
journeys  were  all  pleasure.  He  was  always  good-humoured 
with  her,  and  let  her  talk ;  and  they  had  tea  out,  and  Susan 
chose  the  nicest  cakes  and  felt  as  glad  as  she  supposed  a 
girl  could  feel  who  was  to  be  always  dependent  upon  man. 
She  often  hoped  he  would  say:  "Hadley?"  because  that 
meant  what  she  called  a  sturdy  afternoon.  He  was  never 
fussy  about  her  dress,  as  her  mother  was;  and  he  did  all 
that  a  strange  young  man  might  have  done  without  ever 
causing  her  the  inconvenience  of  feeling  that  a  strange 
young  man  might  have  brought  about  by  behaving  foolishly. 
Susan  did  not  want  either  of  them  to  marry. 

So  they  went  to  Hadley  Woods,  a  place  which  has  the 
commendation  of  all  connoisseurs.  Deep  rich  wood,  hardly 
spoilt,  with  fine  sylvan  patches  of  gleaming  grass,  and 
glorious  silence  and  winding  paths,  all  mingled  together  in 
her  mind  with  the  scent  of  spices  and  the  sense  of  freedom 
from  her  mother's  unwelcome  survey.  When  they  went 
thus    on    the    day    following    Velancourt's    marriage,    the 

121 


122  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

clouds  had  falsified  all  Cissie's  evil  hopes  by  passing  over 
into  Wales  or  into  the  counties  beyond  easy  reach  of  Lon- 
don. It  was  brilliantly  fair ;  and  had  the  quality  of  a  sum- 
mer day,  without  the  closeness  and  enervating  heat  of  sum- 
mer. There  was  a  cut  in  the  air  that  made  Susan's  blood 
tingle,  and  her  high  spirits  active.  She  laughed  to  herself 
as  they  walked. 

They  went  past  the  closed  shops  of  Barnet,  and  round 
through  the  churchyard  of  St.  Mary's,  and  across  the  Com- 
mon, and  into  the  Wood.  Prickly  branches  caught  at 
Susan's  dress  and  hat  and  hair,  and  the  path  wound  in  and 
out,  all  coloured  with  fallen  leaves,  and  brittle  with  ancient 
twigs  that  were  almost  powder.  There  seemed  to  be  few 
people  about:  they  were  all  frowsting  themselves  before 
the  fire  after  dinner,  or  being  lectured  in  congregations,  or 
travelling  to  distant  suburbs  to  pay  unwelcome  duty-calls. 
Only  Susan  and  Joseph  seemed  to  be  having  the  full  joy  of 
the  day.  They  saw  a  poor  old  foolish  man  with  a  camera 
on  a  tripod,  making  vain  endeavour  to  catch  some  fleeting 
vision  of  the  Autumnal  colouring;  and  they  saw  a  few 
nurses;  and  a  few  young  men  with  squeaking  Sunday 
boots ;  and  a  few  rapt  Sunday  couples.  But  Susan  was  sure 
none  of  these  people  appreciated  the  day  as  she  did.  She 
thought  all  the  men  looked  boorish,  and  all  the  girls  surrep- 
titiously miserable.  In  thinking  that,  she  was  not  philo- 
sophical :  she  was  merely  suffering  from  a  fixed  idea.  Jo- 
seph did  not  undeceive  her.  He  was  too  wise  to  undeceive 
his  sister.  When  he  could  mould  her  opinion  by  some  an- 
ticipatory comment,  he  did  so ;  but  he  recognised  the  futility 
of  combating  a  formed  theory.  Susan  would  only  have 
looked  pitying,  and  fit  to  be  shaken. 

There  was  plenty  to  see,  in  the  prospect  before  them,  and 
the  depths  of  the  trees,  which  looked  deceptively  remote  and 
impenetrable.  The  browns  and  the  greens  and  the  yellows 
were  as  sure  and  steady  as  life  itself — as  varied  and  as 
difficult  to  seize. 

"Jolly!"  Susan  said.    "Glad  we  came:  aren't  you?" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  123 

They  went  walking  on,  until  the  green  was  open,  and 
they  could  see  a  railway  train  go  by  in  a  thunder  and  cloud 
of  smoke. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  Amberley  to  himself. 

"Oh,  who?"  begged  Susan. 

"Nobody  you  know.  It's  a  sad  tale;  but  not  for  you. 
You  wouldn't  understand." 

Susan  saw  he  wanted  to  tell  her  all. 

"My  poor  boy,"  she  said.  "It's  more  than  you  can  bear 
by  yourself.  You'd  far  better  tell  your  sister ;  and  share 
the  sorrow."  Her  mischievous  eyes  were  peeping  up  into 
his  face. 

They  rejoined  the  wide  path  that  runs  by  the  side  of  the 
Woods,  and  then  rises  over  the  railway  bridge  and  beyond 
that  until  it  emerges  at  Cockfosters.  The  trees  seemed  to 
hang  over  the  path  in  a  little  while,  and  they  found  a  seat 
shrouded  in  shade  and  protected  from  the  wind. 

"Here  let  us  sit,"  said  Amberley. 

"Now  begin !" 

"That's  the  title  of  a  Wagner  song.  Doesn't  it  always 
stir  you?" 

"No  Wagner  for  me.  The  tale's  the  thing."  Susan  was 
peremptory. 

"Not  in  a  modern  tale.  It's  all  atmosphere,  nowadays. 
The  modern  writer,  like  the  modern  composer,  is  poor  in 
thematic  mat " 

"Bother !    Not  a  lecture,  Joe !" 

"Thematic  material.  He  accordingly  occupies  his  talent 
with  atmosphere " 

"Dear  Joe!" 

"Well.  I'll  tell  you.  You've  heard  me  talk  of — perhaps 
you  haven't  ?  There's  a  man  who  works  on  the  floor  above 
me.  That  is,  the  first  floor — two  floors  below  the  Grettons. 
.  .  .  His  name  is  Velancourt.  He  has  just  got  married. 
See?  Now  I  saw  the  girl — in  fact  I  was  present  at  the 
wedding ; — and  she  may  not  be  a  minx " 


I24  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"They're  all  that,  of  course,"  said  Susan,  with  a  superb 
insolence,  her  nose  in  the  air. 

"Very  well.  She  may  be  a  good  girl.  She's  pretty,  and 
amiable ;  but  she's  not  quite  what  you,  with  your  exagger- 
ated respect  for  the  French  language,  would  call  comme  il 
faut." 

"I  never  knew  you  were  such  a  snob!"  cried  Susan, 
vehemently. 

"You  see  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have  such  an  understand- 
ing sister?"  His  sarcasm  passed  unheeded.  "I  mention 
the  young  woman  in  passing,  for  a  purpose.  As  you  have 
noticed,  I'm  not  a  snob.  I  have  no  belief  in  class  limita- 
tions. Only  in  personal  limitations ;  and  sometimes  the 
two  things  are  involved.  Velancourt's  a  nice  good  young 
man  with  bees  in  his  bonnet.  He  and  I  are  just,  as  it  were, 
making  friends.  I  want  to  bring  him  to  the  flat;  but  if  I 
do  that  she'll  have  to  come." 

"I  never  knew  you  anxious  to  bring  anybody  home  be- 
fore." 

"Very  well.  If  this  girl  comes,  her  superficial  faults  of 
manner  will  set  the  old  lady's  back  up,  and  she'll  ride  a 
cock  horse.     Understand?" 

"Mother's  as  big  a  snob  .  .  .  with  her  dresses " 

"I  want  them  to  come  when  she's  out.  Will  yon  see  to 
the  girl?" 

"You're  an  elaborate  creature !  There's  something  really 
rather  thick-skinned  about  you,  Joe."  She  withdrew  her 
head  so  that  she  could  scrutinise  him  with  a  sort  of  relent- 
less accuracy  not  to  be  separated  from  her  sisterly  regard. 
She  was  musing  about  his  obtuseness  with  all  the  triumph  of 
the  ignorant  person  over  one  who  is,  in  ever  so  slight  a 
degree,  less  ignorant.  She  supposed  her  brother  all  before 
her,  like  some  stumbling  school-boy.  "Of  course  I  will. 
You  don't  realise  that  girls  don't  care  twopence  about  a  lot 
of  preliminary  talk  like  this.  If  you'd  said  to  me  This  man 
and  his  wife  are  coming,'  do  you  think  I  should  have  been 
beastly  to  her?    I'm  sure  she's  very  nice." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  125 

Joseph  Amberley  nodded,  well  pleased.  He  did  not  think 
it  well  to  tell  her  that  he  had  behaved  with  circumspection 
even  in  appearing  circumspect.  He  knew  Susan  quite  well 
enough  to  be  aware  that  he  had  kindled  a  spark  of  kindness 
and  interest  in  her  heart. 

Now,  he  had  no  fear  that  the  evening  would  be  anything 
short  of  a  success.  He  was  determined  not  to  lose  Valen- 
court  now.  He  had  never  been  so  attracted  before.  He 
was  content  to  let  matters  take  their  own  course,  without 
further  anxiety. 

"Well,  that's  very  nice,"  he  said,  contentedly. 

"But  why  be  so  silly  about  it?"  she  persisted. 

Amberley  shivered.  He  was  not  easily  moved,  or  liable 
to  any  violent  kind  of  apprehensiveness ;  yet  he  was  just  a 
little  puzzled  about  Velancourt  and  his  wife. 

"Come  along,  Sue.  It's  getting  cold,"  he  said.  "And 
you're  a  dear  good  girl.  And  I'll  never  tell  you  why,  if  I 
live  to  be  as  old  as  Methusalem  .  .  .  which  is  very  old  in- 
deed, and  very  wise.    Even  wiser  than  I  am  now." 

"If  possible,"  Susan  murmured,  her  attention  diverted. 
"I  wonder  if  you  could  be." 

II 

They  went  walking  on  through  the  wood,  or  along  the 
path  which  ran  by  its  edge,  until  they  came  to  a  pond,  near 
which  a  few  people  were  sitting.  It  was  a  surprise  to  them 
to  hear  their  names  called,  and  to  recognise  Ernest  Gret- 
ton,  who  was  taking  off  his  cap  to  Susan. 

"I  often  come  up  here,"  he  explained.    "I'm  fond  of  it." 

"Jolly  good  taste,"  said  Susan. 

"This  is  my  young  brother,  Harry,"  introduced  Ernest; 
and  they  saw  young  Harry,  with  a  red  shining  face  and  a 
broad  grin.    "We're  both  here." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  in  a  group,  until  Harry  at- 
tached himself  to  Amberley,  and  the  others,  after  a  faint  at- 
tempt to  walk  abreast,  fell  behind. 


126  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Footballing  yesterday?"  asked  Amberley. 

"Rather!    Too  windy,  though." 

"See — you  favour  the  long-passing  game?" 

"I  favour  the  winning  game,"  Harry  said.  "Our  chaps 
don't  play  the  short-passing  game  well.  They're  not  nippy 
enough.    We  just  managed  to  win ;  but  it  was  a  scramble." 

Amberley  began  to  fill  his  pipe  abstractedly. 

"All  well  at  home?" 

"Yes,  thanks.  Barbara's  got  the  rats."  Amberley  smiled 
at  the  proclamation.  "Dad  says  she's  just  proud;  but  she 
treats  me  as  if  I  was  a  ragamuffin." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you're  quite  able  to  look  after  your- 
self," said  Amberley. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know.  Old  Barb's  got  a  tongue.  I  pity 
the  man  who  marries  her." 

Amberley  still  smiled,  though  the  thought  of  Barbara 
married  gave  him  a  small  twinge. 

"I  thought  you  had  a  pretty  fair  tongue  yourself,"  he 
said,  "if  it  comes  to  altercation." 

"Somehow  it  never  does,"  admitted  Harry,  with  candour. 
"She  just  ticks  me  off.  Of  course,  I  get  one  in  now  and 
then;  but  the  truth  is,  you  can't.  It's  all  very  well,  Mr. 
Amberley;  but  manhood's  something." 

"You  think  so?"  Amberley  said,  rather  amused. 

"I  mean,  that  a  man  can't  treat  a  woman  as  his  equal. 
He  tries  to  think  she's  his  superior;  but  she  gives  herself 
away.  All  the  little  mean  things  women  do.  .  .  .  D'you 
know?" 

"I  think,"  Amberley  suggested,  "you'd  better  express 
yourself  on  this  subject  to  my  sister  Susan." 

"Good  Lord,  no !  I  wouldn't  be  so  rude,"  Harry  said. 
"But — well,  look  at  Barbara.  She's  as  honest  as  most ;  but 
she's  as  domineering  as  a  slave-driver.  You  know,  in  West 
Africa." 

"I  believe  that  would  be  called  'spirit,'  or  'strength,'  or 
some  such  name,"  Amberley  said.  "D'you  see  that  the  basis 
of  the  relations  of  the  sexes  is  changing?    It's  all  good.    All 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  127 

progress  is  better  than  stagnation.  It  all  adds  to  the  in- 
terest of  life.  Life's  a  constant  movement;  and  the  more 
variety  the  better." 

"I'm  so  irritated  at  their  swank,"  explained  Harry. 

"Only  the  newness.  I'm  more  concerned  at  the  spiritual 
decline." 

"Oh,  tell  me !  I  can  work  it  off  on  Barb !"  Harry  begged, 
as  quick  as  lightning. 

Amberley  saw  the  dreadful  danger. 

"Not  so!"  he  said.  "I'm  not  going  to  have  her  more 
envenomed." 

"She's  rather  down  on  you." 

"It's  curious,  isn't  it !  It's  nothing  serious  of  course ;  but 
your  sister  perhaps  hardly  appreciates  my  best  qualities." 

"I  know  you're  rotting,"  Harry  said.  "Barb's  a  bit  of  a 
fool.  She's  so  bally  cocksure.  She  doesn't  like  to  be 
thwarted.  She's  all  right,  you  know.  Makes  you  swear, 
though." 

"Well,  even  my  sister  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  she's  different.  She's  a  dear  little  soul,"  said  Harry. 
He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  "Goo'  lord !"  he  ejacu- 
lated. "Old  Ernest  seems  to  be  jolly  well  pleased  with 
himself!" 

Amberley  also  looked  back.  If  Ernest  was  pleased,  so, 
it  appeared,  was  Susan.  They  were  conversing  with  the 
greatest  vivacity,  oblivious  of  their  surroundings  and  their 
relatives. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  they?"  Amberley  asked  himself, 
with  some  defiance. 


Ill 

When  the  four  travellers  had  begun  to  walk  together, 
they  instinctively  followed  the  return  path;  and  were  now 
once  again  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  railway-bridge. 
Harry  stopped  and  looked  up  the  line  with  a  keen  eye. 


128  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Then  they  moved  on,  up  the  road,  down  which  a  trap  drawn 
by  a  very  small  pony  was  zigzagging.  Harry  also  looked 
at  the  pony  with  a  keen  eye.  Amberley  noted  that  Harry 
had  a  keen  eye  for  everything.  He  hoped  Harry  would 
never  take  it  into  his  head  to  direct  that  keen  eye  upon  the 
movements  of  Joseph  Amberley.  He  could  not  think  of 
any  way  in  which,  once  it  was  levelled,  the  purely  corrosive 
effect  of  that  glance  could  be  diverted  or  repelled.  He 
quailed  in  spirit  before  its  uncompromising  cruelty. 

"I  suppose  we  shall  all  have  tea  together,"  young  Harry 
said,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 

"We'd  better  ask  your  brother." 

"Oh,  he  won't  mind.    Look  at  him." 

"I'm  not  going  to  turn  round  again ;  and  I  can't  see  with- 
out." 

"He's  telling  her  about  Rossetti,  or  Mozart,  or  Michael 
Angelo.  Or  some  such  muck,"  Harry  said,  with  contempt. 
"What's  the  good  of  these  deaders?" 

"At  least,  they  can't  do  any  more  harm,  you'd  think  ?" 

"  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them,'  "  quoted  Harry, 
sententiously. 

"You  don't  think  they  did  good?" 

"Have  you  ever  been  lectured  about  them?" 

"God  forbid !" 

"There  you  are !"  said  Harry.  "To  hear  old  Ernest  talk- 
by  the  hour  about  Cimabue  with  some  long-haired  dude  is 
enough  to  scare  a  stone !  Goes  on  and  on.  He  says  it's  all 
right.     Even  old  Barb  can't  be  as  boring  as  that." 

"And  what  does  she  talk  about?" 

"Just  snaps  at  me,  mostly ;  or  I  can't  hear  her." 

Amberley  drew  his  mouth  down  in  a  dry  grimace. 

"You  do  make  a  dragon  of  her!"  he  said,  amusedly. 
"She's  very  intelligent." 

"Oh,"  said  Harry.  "I  was  afraid  you  thought  her  at- 
tractive." 

"Little  beast!" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  129 

"Always  seems  to  me  such  a  pity  for  good  men  to  be 
misled." 

"It's  almost  worse  to  be  precocious,"  retorted  Amber- 
ley. 

''D'you  mean  boring?"  the  boy  asked,  in  some  fear. 

Amberley  looked  at  him  with  a  friendly  smile  which 
robbed  his  admission  of  its  sting. 

"A  little  boring,"  he  said,  slowly. 

They  had  reached  the  gate  that  is  stretched  across  the 
roadway  near  the  church  of  St.  Mary.  With  one  accord, 
they  stopped  here,  by  an  old  tree  that  has  been  railed  round, 
and  they  looked  back  along  the  road.  Far  behind  might  be 
seen  two  engrossed  figures,  talking  and  laughing  in  the  most 
excellently  amiable  manner.  Amberley  felt  young  Harry's 
scorching  gaze  turned  from  the  prospect  to  his  own  invul- 
nerable face.  He  kept  his  own  eyes  averted  only  by  the 
exercise  of  his  most  vehement  desire  not  to  meet  Harry's 
terrible  look. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
POETRY   AT   A   DISCOUNT 


AS  soon  as  they  returned  from  Brighton,  Velancourt  be- 
gan his  walks  backward  and  forward  between  the 
rooms  in  Islington  and  the  office  in  Bloomsbury.  He  was 
still  full  of  marvel  at  Cissie,  whose  fingers  and  mind  seemed 
of  kindred  quickness.  While  he  swayed  towards  and 
around  some  proposed  action,  she  plunged  for  it.  Some- 
times that  led  to  faintest  dreariest  little  disagreements,  and 
hurtnesses,  so  tender  was  the  sensitiveness  of  each  of  them; 
but  when  they  quarrelled  it  was  a  pleasure  the  more  that 
the  quarrels  could  be  so  quickly  made  up.  Cissie  would 
say:  "Are  you  angry  with  me?"  in  her  sharp  way;  and 
Velancourt  would  say,  "No :  how  could  I  be  angry  with 
you?"  (for  really,  when  the  question  was  put  he  marvelled 
at  his  own  pettiness  in  resenting  or  shrinking  from  what- 
ever she  had  said)  ;  and  the  cloud  was  dissolved  in  a  mist  of 
shame.  Or  Velancourt  would  say:  "Cissie,  dear!"  in  a 
very  pleading,  reproachful  tone,  and  Cissie  would  wait  for 
the  caress  which  should  seem  to  justify  her  in  forgiving 
him.  And  so  their  smallest  disagreements  had  such  sweet 
sequels  that  sometimes  Cissie  would  look  a  little  sullen  in 
order  to  bring  them  about,  all  in  the  pleasantest  way. 

They  had  two  rooms  in  a  tall  house  in  a  dull,  serviceable 
street.  The  rooms  were  large,  with  remote,  dirty  ceilings 
which  had  a  sort  of  moulding  that  looked  as  though  it  might 
once  have  resembled  a  succession  of  little  shells.    For  fur- 

130 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  131 

niture  they  had  some  pictures  from  the  Christmas  numbers, 
representing  pussies  and  doggies  and  babies  and  lovers  in 
various  constrained  attitudes,  with  a  horsehair  armchair  and 
a  basket-work  chair,  and  two  odd  chairs  for  sitting  at  table, 
and  one  that  had  to  lean  against  the  wall  like  an  old  lame 
war-horse.  And  they  had  a  curious  crimson  over-mantel, 
with  tarnished  gold  braid  at  the  edges ;  and  a  thrush  in  a 
glass  case,  surrounded  by  tropical  grasses  of  the  most  varie- 
gated hues.  The  bedroom  was  a  simpler  affair  altogether. 
Its  nakedness  was  clothed  in  tired  oilcloth,  and  there  were 
two  pictures,  and  a  yellow  wardrobe-cupboard,  and  a  wash- 
stand,  and  a  table  with  an  embroidered  strip  upon  it,  made 
to  simulate  a  dressing-table,  and  a  chair  that  had  been 
enamelled  white,  and  a  mirror  that  made  them  look  like 
people  who  had  not  yet  dined  at  Pearce  and  Plenty's.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room,  with  its  back  to  one  of  the  walls, 
was  a  very  large  bed,  a  sort  of  khaki  colour,  without  the 
knobs  at  the  foot.  It  was  an  unpleasant  bed  because  the 
mattress  was  matted,  and  huge  hard  lumps  made  any  posi- 
tion uncomfortable.  It  also  promised  winter-discomforts 
because  all  the  bedclothes  were  rather  too  small,  and  because 
they  could  in  no  way  be  pegged  down  to  avert  periodical 
slippings  to  one  side  or  the  other. 

So  Velancourt  rather  hesitatingly  hated  those  rooms. 

And  Cissie  liked  them,  for  the  time,  because  the  landlady 
was  a  large  slovenly  talkative  woman,  who  leant  against 
doors,  and  bulged  round  them,  with  wide-open  eyes  of  quite 
surprising  interest.  She  quickly  learnt  from  Cissie  the 
whole  circumstances  of  the  marriage,  and  flattered  Cissie 
by  approving  the  course  she  had  taken. 

"No  matter  00  it  may  be,"  she  said ;  "mother  or  no 
mother,  you  did  right,  my  dear.  You  did  quite  right,  and  I 
wish  I  'ad  your  pluck.  My  ole  man  was  a  rare  trouble  to 
me.  Did  Mr.  V.  see  your  mother  too?  Oh  he  is  a  nice 
young  gentleman.  .  .  ."  She  bowed  very  slightly  (her  ac- 
tion was  slower  than  a  nod,  and  much  more  respectful) 
whenever  Cissie  spoke,  and  Cissie,  under  that  round,  en- 


i32  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

couraging,  continuously-surprised  gaze,  found  herself  rather 
inclined  to  exaggerate  Velancourt's  position  in  the  world. 
She  was  only  restrained  by  the  fact  that  if  Velancourt  really 
was  the  manager  of  his  firm  he  would  hardly  be  lodging 
in  two  furnished  rooms  in  Islington.  Her  own  common 
sense  saved  her  from  the  pitfall  into  which  many  wives  have 
stumbled.  She  compromised  by  saying  that  he  had  a  very 
good  position,  with  the  most  wonderful  prospects  ever  held 
out  to  mortal  man.  She  said  he  came  of  a  very  old  family 
(which  was  quite  true)  ;  and  she  almost  succeeded  in  pro- 
nouncing her  own  surname  with  a  patrician  air. 

"No:  you  don't  get  it  right,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Robbis. 
"It's  Ve-/aw-coor.  I  always  think  it's  a  nice  name.  So 
superior." 

"Oo,  it  is,"  agreed  Mrs.  Robbis.  "I  suppose  what  makes 
me  think  of  vellum  is  his  being  a  lawyer."  She  was  im- 
pressed :  she  believed  Cissie's  tales — not  because  she  thought 
Cissie  truthful,  but  because  Velancourt  somehow  "looked 
the  part."  He  had  that  sort  of  distinction  that  is  especially 
attractive  to  the  common  eye,  a  white  skin,  and  an  air  of 
breeding  which  marked  him  off  from  the  other  lodgers  in 
the  street.  Cissie  received  from  her  in  return  the  stories  of 
her  successive  accouchements,  which  seemed  to  be  Mrs. 
Robbis's  standby  in  the  art  of  conversation.  "Oo,"  said 
Mrs.  Robbis.  "You'll  know  all  about  it  in  time,  for  all 
you're  such  a  pretty  dear." 

Cissie's  whole  body  seemed  to  give  a  twitch  at  that.  Her 
own  mother  had  been  very  particular  about  talking  of  such 
things;  and  Cissie  realised  with  pride  that  she  was  now 
married  and  grown  up.  But  beyond  that  there  was  another 
feeling — a  mingled  eagerness  and  dread.  It  made  her  heart 
beat  for  a  few  moments.  Then  it  became  part  of  her  gen- 
eral store  of  thought.  Mrs.  Robbis  was  just  a  "person";  it 
was  Cissie  herself  who  counted. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  133 


II 

Velancourt  would  come  home  in  the  evening,  very  proud 
of  his  wife;  and  they  would  have  their  meal  together;  and 
then  Cissie  would  clear  away  the  dishes  and  wash  them  up 
in  Mrs.  Robbis's  scullery.  And  then  they  would  sit  down 
to  spend  the  long,  exquisitely-lonely  evenings  together.  Cis- 
sie sewed  or  knitted,  Velancourt  would  sit  and  look  at  her 
with  pride  in  his  eyes,  until  Cissie  would  say: 

"You  are  a.  boy !  Oh,  do  leave  off  staring :  it  gives  me  the 
fair  old  shivers!"  and  she  would  put  down  her  work  and 
come  creeping  across  the  room  with  her  eyes  bright  and 
bold,  right  into  his  arms.  And  her  voice  would  get  dull 
and  thick,  and  she  would  say :  "D'you  love  me  just  a  lit- 
tle?" and  Velancourt  would  feel  his  heart  all  swollen  with 
love  and  delight.  .  .  . 

He  tried  once  or  twice  to  read  aloud  to  her;  but  Cissie 
yawned,  or  looked  at  the  fire,  or  interrupted  with  some  in- 
consequent remark  that  chilled  his  ardour  wonderfully.  One 
time  he  had  taken  up  Keats's  Poems,  and  had  begun  to  read 
aloud  from  "Sleep  and  Poetry,"  at  the  lines : 

"  'Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old?  .  .  .'" 

when  his  attention  was  attracted  to  Cissie  by  an  audible 
tittering.  At  once  he  stopped,  to  stare  at  her  in  surprise. 
Her  eyes  were  archly  and  enjoyingly  fixed  upon  him,  and 
she  had  dropped  her  work  from  sheer  amused  inability  to 
continue  it. 

"You  looked  such  a  sketch,  with  your  mouth  open,"  she 
said,  laughing.  "Hoarsing  it  out  like  that !  I  couldn't  help 
.  .  .  What's  the  matter?    Done  something  wrong,  have  I?" 

Velancourt  was  desperate  with  anger. 


i34  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Don't  you  want  to  hear  it?"  he  said,  fiercely. 

"Well,  whether  I  do  or  I  don't  doesn't  seem  to  matter. 
You  went  on."  Cissie's  cheeks  reddened,  and  her  eyes  be- 
came glittering. 

"I  thought  you  liked  it."    He  was  aghast.    "Don't  you?" 

"Silly  rubbish,  it  is  .  .  ."  she  said,  teasing,  trying  to  put 
herself  in  the  right,  afraid  and  sorry  and  defiant.  He  rose 
and  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  in  the  bitterest 
mood. 

"I'll  never  read  to  you  again,"  he  said.    "Never." 

"Why,  you're  just  like  a  child !" 

"Please  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"Well,  what  a  lot  of  fuss  about  nothing.  You  could  have 
gone  on  reading.    My  thoughts  are  my  own,  aren't  they  ?" 

Velancourt  came  back,  and  stood  near  her.  He  tried  to 
keep  his  temper.  What  was  the  use  of  being  angry  with 
her?  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  bore,  or  a  prig.  Gently,  he 
tried  to  explain,  to  put  his  feeling  clearly  without  hurting 
her. 

"No,  dear.  It's  this.  Either  you  like  me  to  read  to  you, 
or  you  don't.  I  don't  want  to  read  if  you  don't  like  it.  I 
thought  you  liked  it.  Does  it  tire  you?  Just  tell  me.  I 
can't  bear  you  not  to  pay  attention  when  I'm  reading.    It's 

so "     He  had  been  going  to  say  "ill-bred,"  when  his 

tongue  was  checked  by  the  horror  of  applying  such  a  word 
to  her. 

"Well,  you  looked  so  funny,"  she  prevaricated. 

"Does  it  tire  you  ?" 

"What  a  fuss  the  boy  makes !" 

"Cissie,  dear,  does  it  tire  you?  Would  you  rather  I 
didn't?" 

"Yes."  She  said  it  loudly  and  sulkily.  "Certainly  I 
would!" 

"Very  well."  His  lips  trembled,  and  he  put  the  book  on 
the  table,  and  drew  his  chair  up,  so  as  to  pretend  to  read  it. 

"You  don't  ask  if  I'm  tired,  or  anything,"  Cissie  went  on, 
with  a  sense  of  grievance.    "It's  nothing  to  you  if  I've  had  a 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  135 

dull  day,  waiting  for  you  to  come  home.  After  all,  it's 
nothing  so  very  dretful  if  I  did  interrupt.    Surely!" 

The  hot  tears  made  Velancourt's  eyes  smart,  and  he  could 
not  see  the  swimming  page.  He  had  never  been  so  hurt.  If 
she  couldn't  bear  him  to  be  himself,  what  was  the  good  of 
her  love?  Was  it  love?  Did  she  love  him?  He  couldn't 
understand  her.  He  tried  to  be  interested  in  what  she  told 
him  about  Mrs.  Robbis,  and  her  marketing,  and  the  sudden 
little  thoughts  that  seemed  to  come  into  her  mind.  When 
they  were  trivial  he  was  sorry  that  her  days  should  be  so, 
and  longed  to  awaken  in  her  the  power  of  loving  his  favour- 
ite books.  But  if  his  books  bored  her,  he  himself  bored 
her.  She  could  have  no  possible  communion  with  him. 
They  were  condemned  for  ever  to  that  silent  love-making 
which  had  so  often  concealed  the  sterility  of  their  common 
life.  They  did  not  talk:  he  had  supposed  it  was  because 
there  was  no  need.  But  it  seemed  from  this  that  they  did 
not  talk  because  they  had  nothing  to  say  to  one  another. 
It  was  too  horrible  to  think  of:  the  pain  was  too  great. 
How  could  he  bear  it? 

"Adrian."  He  made  no  answer.  He  hardly  heard  her. 
"Big  baby,  you!  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  be  sulky!" 
She  went  back  to  her  work,  with  her  head  lowered.  In  a 
little  while  she  began  to  hum  to  herself,  to  show  that  she 
didn't  care.  Then  the  humming  stopped.  Velancourt  read 
over  and  over  again : 

"The  visions  all  are  fled — the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong, 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 
My  soul  to  nothingness.  .  .  ." 

He  smiled  to  himself  with  conscious  bitterness  at  the  ap- 
propriate air  of  those  words.  He  felt  indeed  that  life  was 
barren  now,  a  dreary  thread  of  sorrowful  experience.  His 
mouth  drooped,  his  eyes  were  dark;  his  hands  so  held  his 
face  that  Cissie  could  not  see  more  than  the  bent  head  and 
a  long  white  hand. 


136  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

There  came  a  little  dump  on  the  floor. 

"Oh  bother!  There's  my  cotton  dropped.  Adrian,  my 
cotton's  on  the  floor.     Pick  it  up  for  me !" 

He  steeled  himself  against  her  air  of  humility,  as  well  as 
against  the  obvious  artifice  she  had  chosen  for  a  reconcilia- 
tion that  could  not  fail  to  leave  them  where  they  were ;  and 
picked  up  the  reel  of  cotton,  not  looking  at  Cissie  as  he 
replaced  it  in  her  hand. 

"Thanks.  You  are  a  silly,  to  be  angry  with  me.  .  .  ." 
He  did  not  say  anything:  she  would  not  apologise,  because 
it  would  be  bad  for  him.  "Oh,  well :  I'll  just  have  to  wait 
till  you  get  over  your  sulks.    Adrian !" 

"It  seems  that  I  can't  even  read  to  myself,"  he  said,  in  a 
quivering  voice  that  he  tried  to  keep  level. 

"Stupid  old  book !"  she  said,  venomously.  Then,  upon 
another  course :  "If  you  love  your  books  better  than  you 
love  me  .  .  ."    She  let  him  hear  her  tremulous  breath. 

"Please  don't  say  any  more !"  He  felt  passionately  angry. 
A  sense  of  his  own  ridiculousness  was  creeping  stealthily 
upon  him.  He  was  being  like  some  stupid  sentimental  boy, 
far  sunken  in  his  ostentatious  anger  and  unable  to  climb 
back  into  ordinary  behaviour.  He  was  being  weak  and 
undignified — showing  his  hurt  when  his  manhood  (as  well 
as  her  girlhood)  demanded  that  he  should  be  unmoved.  Yet 
it  was  not  a  slight  thing  to  him.  A  great  sympathy  or  fun- 
damental failure  of  sympathy  was  involved.  It  was  not  her 
laughter  he  minded :  it  was  her  insensitiveness  that  drove 
him  nearly  mad  with  disappointment.  He  had  thought  her 
so  wonderful,  and  so  sweet:  and  she  had  no  feeling  for 
what  moved  him  to  ecstasy.  It  made  her  seem  what  he 
dreaded  even  to  admit  to  himself — mundane.  It  made  him 
seem  a  prig.  Every  time  they  quarrelled,  she  made  him 
seem  a  prig,  as  though  all  the  reverence  with  which  he 
hedged  her  about  made  her  despise  him  for  inexperience. 

"Feeling  better  ?"  asked  Cissie.  "How  much  longer  are 
you  going  to  make  me  miserable  ?" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  137 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her  coolly,  without 
emotion. 

"I'm  not  making  you  miserable,"  he  said.  "Nor  am  I 
being  sulky.  I'm  simply  trying  to  read  to  myself  as  you 
don't  care  for  what  I  want  to  read." 

Cissie's  eyes  were  moist. 

"You're  making  me  cry,"  she  told  him.  "It's  such  a  .  .  . 
such  a  .  .  ."  She  seemed  to  shudder,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  piteous  expression  which  was  half  disdain.  "Adrian, 
dear!"  In  a  moment  her  work  was  thrown  aside,  and  she 
was  kneeling  beside  him,  sobbing  in  his  arms.  "You  are  a 
brute!"  she  managed  to  say.  And  presently,  withdrawing 
herself  a  little:  "Aren't  you!  The  silly  old  book  .  .  . 
making  you  think  you  didn't  love  me  any  more !" 

The  marvel  of  her  intuition  shocked  Velancourt.  He 
kissed  her  again  and  again,  horror-stricken. 


CHAPTER   XV 
A  GREAT  DEAL  OF  CONVERSATION 


BUT  Cissie  and  Velancourt  in  a  short  time  began  to  wake 
up  to  the  need  of  importing  into  their  daily  affairs 
some  of  that  casual  variety  without  which  it  seemed  to  them 
at  first  that  they  would  be  both  happier  and  more  fully  con- 
tented. It  was  when  they  had  been  married  a  fortnight  that 
they  went  up  to  see  the  Amberleys.  Mrs.  Amberley  was 
out  for  the  evening,  and  indeed  was  staying  the  night  away, 
with  some  relatives ;  so  the  young  Amberleys  were  almost 
sorry  to  be  having  visitors  at  all.  Susan,  in  spite  of  her 
desires  for  a  larger  life,  was  glad  to  be  quietly  at  home  with 
her  brother.  Joseph  sometimes  realised  that  it  was  only  the 
ceaseless  jar  of  her  own  temperament  with  her  mother's  that 
made  Susan  so  eager  to  seek  new  tribulations.  He  longed 
for  an  opportunity  of  projecting  this  simple  fact  along  the 
lines  of  a  useful  and  irritating  generalisation.  They  sat 
demurely  waiting  for  the  Velancourts,  Susan's  mind  think- 
ing in  little  jerks  about  the  things  she  might  have  forgotten 
to  do,  Amberley  thinking  of  Barbara. 

The  Velancourts  were  very  punctual;  and  Cissie  was  so 
bent  on  behaving  nicely  that  she  gave  Susan  a  tight  little 
smile,  and  seemed  afraid  to  move  a  muscle.  With  Amber- 
ley she  was  different,  and  was  ready  to  laugh  and  to  ex- 
change bright  glances.  Velancourt  instantly  won  Susan's 
heart,  because  he  was  unaffected  and  naively  "Bromidic"  in 
his  first  speeches ;  but  he  proved  a  little  shy  with  her,  and 

138 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  139 

their  acquaintance  did  not  make  much  progress  in  the  course 
of  the  evening.  He  was  touched  by  Amberley's  considera- 
tion, and  charmed  with  the  comfortable  prettily-furnished 
rooms,  and  impressed  by  the  fact  that  Amberley  had  about 
seven  hundred  books ;  but  he  would  not  talk  to  Susan.  She 
felt  curiously  snubbed  at  first,  until  she  saw  that  he  was 
perfectly  at  ease  and  only  preferring  to  listen.  So  she  told 
them  all  about  the  Promenade  Concerts;  and  Amberley 
showed  how  Sir  Henry  Wood  made  his  orchestra  respond 
to  the  enthusiastic  plaudits  of  the  audience ;  and  Susan  de- 
scribed how  on  one  occasion,  two  or  three  years  ago,  the 
organ  at  Queen's  Hall  had  suddenly  failed  while  it  was 
taking  a  leading  part  in  some  performance,  and  how  Sir 
Henry  Wood,  with  impressive  aplomb,  had  jumped  down 
and  finished  the  organ  part  on  the  grand  piano,  leaving  the 
orchestra  to  transact  its  own  affairs  by  the  light  of  nature. 
And  in  telling  this  story,  Susan's  eyes  glowed,  and  her 
cheeks  flushed,  and  her  pretty  mouth  seemed  even  prettier 
and  more  vivacious  than  ever,  so  greatly  did  she  admire  the 
masculine  virtue  of  presence-of-mind,  and  so  vividly  did 
she  recall  that  sensational  evening.  Cissie  watched  her  jeal- 
ously, sick  with  fear. 

"We  haven't  had  time  to  go  anywhere  yet,"  she  said, 
when  Susan  said  they  ought  to  go  to  the  Promenade  Con- 
certs, which  were  in  full  swing.  She  wasn't  going  to  let 
Susan  suppose  that  she  never  went  anywhere.  A  fierce  and 
pathetic  instinct  made  her  defiant  of  Susan's  so  manifest 
superiorities. 

"Joe  takes  me  sometimes,"  Susan  explained.  "As  often 
as  I  can  persuade  him  to." 

"You  understand  that  I  never  want  to  go  myself,"  Joseph 
added.    "I'm  dragged  there." 

"Oh,  it's  the  most  awful  job  every  time.  He's  frightfully 
sordid  about  it." 

The  Velancourts  listened  to  this  exposure  with  serious 
faces. 

"I  should  have  thought  he'd  have  liked  to  go,"  Cissie  said. 


140  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"But  I  know  how  it  is.  Some  people  like  one  thing,  and 
some  another,  don't  they?  Tastes  differ.  I  expect  he  likes 
the  music-halls.  What  they  see  in  them  I  can't  make  out. 
Nasty  common  things !" 

Velancourt  looked  anxious  at  such  a  long  speech. 

"Is  it  easy  to  get  into  these  concerts?"  he  asked.  "I 
mean,  would  you  .  .  .  Could  we  one  night  go  together? 
I  should  like  to  take  Cissie." 

They  looked  out  the  season  programme  and  warned  him 
off  the  Wagner  night,  because  Susan  had  got  beyond  Wag- 
ner and  was  now  all  for  Mozart ;  and  when  they  found  that 
neither  Cissie  nor  Velancourt  could  claim  the  smallest 
knowledge  of  music,  Susan  became  animated  in  an  attempt 
to  choose  the  best  and  most  delicate  programme  of  all.  Un- 
fortunately the  programme  which  should  have  included  all 
her  best-loved  items  and  excluded  all  those  for  which  she 
felt  an  unconquerable  dislike  was  one  never  to  be  found  at 
any  one  concert.  It  seemed  that  if  one  had  the  overture  to 
Figaro  one  must  also  have  "1812,"  and  that  if  one  got  rid 
of  Tschaikowsky  altogether  one  did  not  hear  the  Emperor 
Concerto  or  Boccherini's  minuet;  and  as  Susan's  prefer- 
ences embraced  the  Fifth  Symphony  and  the  "Mock  Mor- 
ris" of  Percy  Grainger,  as  well  as  many  other  compositions 
equally  contrasted,  both  visitors  were  bewildered,  and  one 
of  them  found  herself  yawning  and  glancing  surreptitiously 
at  the  clock.  So  Susan,  leaving  them  still  poring  over  the 
programme,  disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  because  she  had 
observed  the  yawn  and  the  furtive  glances.  She  felt  that 
such  inattentiveness  could  only  denote  complete  boredom ; 
she  did  not  know  that  Cissie  sometimes  lost  interest  rather 
quickly  and  yawned  more  from  habit  than  from  dire  need. 

Amberley  thereupon  turned  his  attention  to  Cissie,  and 
engaged  her  in  conversation. 

"Now  what  was  that  you  were  saying  about  music-halls  ?" 
he  asked.  This  was  before  the  music-hall  had  been  sealed 
with  Royal  patronage,  and  so  Cissie  looked  confused,  and 
tongue-tied. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  141 

"I  only  said  they  were  common,"  she  said. 

"How  d'you  know?    Have  you  been?" 

She  looked  in  a  panic  at  Adrian.  She  wanted  to  seem 
neither  a  fool  nor  an  habitue. 

"Yes,  well,  once  or  twice." 

"To  the  West  End  halls?" 

"No." 

"Then  you'd  better  get  Velancourt  to  take  you  to  a  good 
West  End  hall.  You'd  enjoy  it."  Amberley  was  not  going 
to  argue  with  her.    Cissie  quailed  under  his  eye. 

"Bert  goes,"  she  said,  defensively.  "They're  not  for 
ladies.    Ladies  don't  go." 

"Oh !"  cried  Velancourt,  involuntarily.  He  was  consumed 
with  disgust.    Amberley  laughed. 

"The  reason  everybody  ought  sometimes  to  go  to  the 
music-hall,"  he  went  on,  "is  that  the  halls  form  the  only 
kind  of  entertainment  in  England  where  the  best  people  are 
incontestably  at  the  top.  Somehow  quality  tells  in  the  halls 
more  than  anywhere  else,  because  it's  based  on  Personality. 
The  second-rate  personality  is  a  second-rate  star.  In  other 
professions  it  is  impossible  for  the  best  to  be  also  the  most 
popular.  On  the  halls  the  stars  have  to  make  and  to  keep 
their  position.  They're  the  quietest  and  surest  of  actors, 
absolutely  dependent  on  their  own  resources.  You  go  to 
the  music-halls,  Mrs.  Velancourt.    Take  my  tip." 

Cissie  giggled. 

"I'll  see,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  if  Adrian  will  take 
me." 

Velancourt  was  silent.  He  felt  that  he  disagreed  with 
Amberley,  without  knowing  why. 

"If  he  says  they're  bad,  I  shall  invite  him  to  take  you, 
for  his  own  sake,"  Amberley  proceeded. 

"He's  very  peculiar  in  his  ways,"  began  Cissie,  glad  of  a 
chance  of  indirect  criticism.  "Fussy,  you  know."  She 
sighed.  "I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  him."  She 
enjoyed  saying  that,  because  it  gave  her  such  a  sense  of 
power.    "He  can't  see  a  joke." 


142  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Oh,  well,"  objected  Amberley.  "That's  a  desperate  test 
for  any  man." 

"You  can  see  a  joke,"  said  Cissie. 

"Not  all  jokes.  The  man  who  sees  every  joke  is  a  cham- 
pion bore." 

"No,  well,  I  mean  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  he  can't  see  your  jokes." 

"They're  not  jokes  at  all,"  interruoted  Velancourt. 

"What  are  they,  then  ?"  she  challenged  him,  pertly. 

"I  couldn't  say." 

"Old  sober-sides,"  Cissie  said. 

"You  must  know,  Mrs.  Velancourt,  that  the  appreciation 
of  jokes  is  really  confined  to  the  joker.  Half  the  laughter 
of  the  jokee  is  an  artificial  prolongation,  to  prevent  his  own 
subsequent  joke  being  suspected  of  murder.  Besides,  as 
long  as  he's  laughing,  the  first  joker  can't  double  his  joke  by 
making  another  one." 

Velancourt  smiled  faintly  at  his  friend's  ingenuities. 

"I  don't  think  jokes  are  very  good  things,"  he  said. 

"Very  rarely  what  they're  cracked  up  to  be,"  Amberley 
added.  "Besides,  jokes  are  generally  no  joke  at  all.  If 
they're  witty,  they're  wit.  If  they're  stories,  they're  stories. 
If  they're  puns,  they're  puns.  And  so  on.  What  Mrs. 
Velancourt  dislikes  is  the  absence  of  humour." 

"I  only  want  him  not  to  look  glum,"  Cissie  said,  feeling 
happy  at  getting  that  in. 

"Perhaps  you  look  glum  at  his  jokes?"  suggested  Am- 
berley. 

"Never  makes  any!"  she  pouted.  "I  don't  believe  he 
could." 

"Could  you?"  Amberley  asked  Velancourt.  Velancourt 
thought  for  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  admitted.  "Perhaps  something  very  involved 
and  laboured." 

"The  sort  of  joke  that  poets  make — very  elephantine  and 
ingenious,  as  though  it  was  so  trumpeted  as  to  be  mangled 
in  the  process.    Poets  are  poor  jokers." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  143 

"Poor  anything!"  cried  Cissie.  "Mr.  Amberley,  do  you 
read  poitry  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!"  cried  Velancourt,  seeing  whither  her 
intention  drifted. 

"Sometimes,"  Amberley  admitted. 

"Adrian  reads  it  to  me  till  I  could  scream !" 

"That's  very  injudicious."  Amberley  did  not  look  at 
Velancourt. 

"You  don't  understand !"  cried  Velancourt. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  have  to  listen  to  it.  Do  you  ?" 
Cissie  said,  flushed  with  success. 

"You  might  do  it  if  you  wanted  to  please  him." 

Her  mouth  opened  a  very  little. 

"To  p "    She  stopped. 

"I  suppose  he's  trying  to  share  his  own  pleasure  with 
you." 

Velancourt  sat  very  white,  looking  at  Cissie  with  eyes 
that  besought  silence.  Amberley  stared  into  the  fire  with  a 
curious  persistency,  as  though  the  glow  had  caught  his  eyes 
and  mesmerised  him.  Cissie  gave  a  fidgeting  look  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Course  you'd  take  his  side,"  she  said.  Amberley,  in  a 
little  side  glance,  saw  her  eyes  shine;  but  he  saw  also  an 
obstinate  mouth. 

"I've  no  doubt  there  are  two  sides  to  everything,"  he  said. 
"As  we  can  see  by  the  door.  Because  Susan's  bumping  the 
tray  on  the  other  side,  to  be  let  in." 

He  opened  the  door. 

"It's  not  at  all  heavy!"  said  Susan,  defensively.  "But 
I'm  sorry  to  have  been  so  long." 

She  tottered  in.  Amberley  forbore  to  scold :  he  thought 
she  had  perhaps  produced  the  best  possible  diversion. 

II 

Later,  Amberley  took  Velancourt  into  his  own  room,  in 
which  a  bed  was  so  inconspicuous  an  object  that  Velancourt 


i44  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

hardly  knew  there  was  a  bed  there  until  Amberley  men- 
tioned the  inconveniences,  of  a  flat. 

"I  wish  we  had  one,"  Velancourt  said.  "I  can't  help 
disliking  our  rooms.  I'm  sure  they  have  a  bad  effect  on 
me.    They're  so  ugly." 

"Well,  I  should  get  out  of  them,"  Amberley  said. 

"I  should  like  to." 

"Why  not  do  it?" 

"Get  out?  I  really  don't  know.  One  stays  on.  .  .  . 
Well,  one  thing  I  know  is  that  I  haven't  got  any  money  to 
buy  furniture." 

"Your  best  plan,"  Amberley  said,  very  distinctly,  "is  to 
leave  your  antediluvian  old  fossil  at  Great  James  Street, 
and  get  a  good  serious  paying  job  somewhere  else.  In  the 
country — why  not?  You  like  the  country.  Or  even  in 
London.  There  are  jobs  to  be  had :  they  only  want  find- 
ing. 

Velancourt,  standing  moodily  by  the  fire,  nodded  at  Am- 
berley's  confident  tone. 

"You're  quite  right,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I'm  awfully 
dissatisfied  with  myself." 

"That's  bad.  You  ought  to  be  dissatisfied  with  Robin- 
sons." 

Amberley  puffed  away,  holding  his  pipe  by  the  bowl  and 
resting  his  elbows  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  Velancourt 
looked  quickly  at  him. 

"I'm  always  wondering,"  Velancourt  said,  "whether  you 
hope  to  sting  me  into  confidence  by  talking  like  that.  Or  if 
you  really  believe  it.  I  think  I  do  know  myself  better  than 
most  people " 

"So  do  most  people,"  snapped  Amberley. 

"What?" 

"Their  own  self-knowledge,  their  own  sense  of  humour, 
and  their  own  imaginativeness  are  the  three  things  most 
people  are  most  sure  about.  They're  all  wrong.  I  ought  to 
have  added,  their  own  appreciation  of  beauty." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  145 

"It  must  be  excellent  to  be  as  sure  of  most  things  as  you 
are,"  retorted  Velancourt. 

"Thanks.     I'm  pretty  sure." 

"You're  an  atrocious  humbug."  Velancourt's  face  was 
lighted  up,  and  he  gave  a  little  laugh.  "You're  so  exas- 
perating. I  know  I'm  no  good  as  a  solicitor's  clerk.  I 
haven't  any  knowledge  of  anything." 

"You  can't  distinguish  the  will  from  the  deed.  The 
person  who  says  /  will,  does  everything.  Everything's  pos- 
sible for  you.    I  wish  you  smoked." 

"You  know," — Velancourt  sat  down — "I  think  thafs  a 
fallacy.  The  idea  that  we  can  both  do  the  same  things. 
You've  got  a  supreme  sense  of  facts ;  while  I " 

"I  implore  you  not  to  be  arrogant !" 

Velancourt  stared  at  him,  half  irritated. 

"Arrogant?" 

"You  were  going  to  say  you  had  no  sense  of  facts. 
That's  because  you  despise  them.  Also  you  think  that  all 
precise  knowledge  is  opposed  to  imagination.  You  think 
you've  got  imagination  and  that  I'm  on  a  lower  plane.  You 
think  that  I'm  an  analyst.  You're  just  like  Ernest  Gretton. 
He  thinks  I'm  a  chemist,  and  that  I'm  inhuman.  Well,  you 
say  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  a  poet ;  and  he  says  I'm  the 
really  imaginative  person." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"I  don't  mean  he  came  and  proclaimed  it;  but  what  he 
said  was :  'The  ingenious  are  always  fanciful,  and  the 
truly  imaginative  never  otherwise  than  analytic'  Wait  a 
minute;  I'll  get  the  book  down."  He  reached  down  Poe's 
Tales,  and  read  aloud :  "  'The  analyst  .  .  .  makes,  in  si- 
lence, a  host  of  observations  and  inferences.  So,  perhaps, 
do  his  companions ;  and  the  difference  in  the  extent  of  the 
information  obtained  lies  not  so  much  in  the  validity  of  the 
inference  as  in  the  quality  of  the  observation.  The  necessary 
knowledge  is  that  of  what  to  observe.'  Then  it  goes  on 
about  whist-playing ;  and  in  the  end  reveals  the  true  quality 
of  imagination — which  involves  the  analytical  quality.    Now 


146  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

I  am  analytic.  I  am  therefore,  by  inference,  imaginative. 
The  average  man  thinks  that  the  more  incapable  he  is  of 
analysis  and  precise  observation,  the  more  he  shows  his 
imaginative  superiority.  He  thinks  himself  an  esprit  fort 
and  an  esprit  superieur  simply  because  his  brain  recoils 
from  analysis.  'Behold,'  says  he:  'I'm  too  good  for  this 
sort  of  thing.'  But  he's  really  neither  strong  nor  superior : 
he's  simply  a  dull,  humourless  rascal." 

Again  Velancourt  laughed. 

"I  think  it's  very  good,"  he  said.  Then  his  face  changed. 
"I  wish  I  knew  something,"  he  added,  broodingly.  "If  I 
knew  only  one  thing." 

"Don't  you  know  a  single  thing?" 

"Not  one.  Good  gracious !  What  certainty  is  there?  I 
can  think  myself  splendid  at  one  minute;  and  the  next  min- 
ute the  splendour  fades.  And  I  can  feel  with  tremendous 
intensity  sometimes ;  but  the  same  thing  leaves  me  quite  dull 
at  another  time.  I  suppose  I  am  what  you  call  arrogant; 
but  it's  in  seeing  other  people  doing  things  I  so  much  hate. 
It's  not — surely — that  I  despise  them.  I  don't  think  I  de- 
spise anything.  But  I  do  hate  things,  and  dread  other 
things  that  I  don't  understand.  There  are  things  I  keep 
myself — try  to  keep  myself  from  knowing,  because  I  feel 
they'll  break  in  on  the  only  happiness  I  have.  And  then 
you  come  along,  and  seem  to  get  somehow  ever  so  much 
more  richness  and  happiness  out  of  life  than  I  do.  I  can 
see  your  position,  and  admire  you:  but  I  can't  adopt  your 
way.  After  all,  it's  a  temperamental  thing.  There  are 
things  you  can  understand — thousands,  I'm  sure — that  I 
simply  can't  guess.  But  if  you  rob  me  of  the  idea  that  I 
also  have  my  understandings,  of  things  completely  hid  from 
you,  well — what  do  you  leave  me?" 

"Why  shouldn't  we  know  the  same  things?  Why  be 
such  a  miser?"  asked  Amberley. 

"Oh,  simply  because  if  you  take  away  my  belief  in  my 
own  individuality,  my  own  'different-ness'  from  other  peo- 
ple, there's  no  reason  for  me  to  exist  at  all." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  147 

"You  can't  bear  the  idea  of  being  a  part  of  the  future?" 

"No." 

"And  do  you  grant  the  same  belief  in  individuality  to 
everybody  else?" 

Velancourt  stammered. 

"I  think  so.    At  least,  I  don't  challenge  it." 

"Well,  I  just  wondered.  I  don't  see  any  need  for  con- 
cern about  the  whole  matter;  but  that's  because  I  find  the 
mere  spectacle  of  life  so  engrossing.  Your  position  doesn't 
seem  to  be  compatible  with  a  genuine  give-and-take  con- 
tact with  the  life  of  others." 

"Oh  no:  why  should  it  be?" 

"You  don't  need  others  in  your  life?" 

"N oh  yes,  I  do!"     He  said  it  with  feeling.     "Is  it 

just  that  I'm  weak  ?" 

"Not  at  all :  you're  very  sincere.  It  takes  a  lot  of  strength 
to  be  sincere.  More  than  you're  conscious  of.  I  don't 
expect  it's  ever  occurred  to  you  to  be  insincere.  You've 
probably  always  been  afraid  of  being  over-valued  (which 
is  a  sort  of  vanity)  :  the  majority  of  people  are  always 
trying  to  be  over-valued,  trying  to  accept  their  own  esti- 
mate of  themselves.  What's  wrong  with  you  is  that  you're 
inexperienced.  And  to  be  inexperienced  is  awful.  In  time 
it  grows  into  a  craving  for  both  solitude  and  sympathy,  a 
horror  of  everything.  Really,  you  exaggerate  the  coarse- 
ness and  roughness  of  everything.  Seen  in  their  proper 
relations,  things  are  not  at  all  disgusting:  they're  simply 
crammed  through  and  through  with  interest  and  character." 

"It's  rather  ridiculous  of  me  to  sit  listening  and  asking 
advice,"  Velancourt  murmured. 

"You're  not  asking  for  advice.  You  don't  know  any- 
body of  your  own  calibre,  and  you're  taking  advantage  of 
me  for  a  good  purpose.  As  to  listening:  you'll  find  I  can 
listen,"  Amberley  said,  with  a  smile. 

"It's  done  me  good." 

"And  me." 


i48  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Why,  how  could  that  be?"  Velancourt  asked,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Oh :  I  very  rarely  meet  anybody  who  makes  me  want 
to  talk." 

"And  I  do  that?" 

"Certainly.    I  say,  I  wish  you  smoked." 

"I  loathe  it.  It  seems  right  for  you.  It  would  be  hor- 
rible for  me.    It  doesn't  interest  me." 

"Try  not  to  be  too  fastidious." 

"Am  I  that,  too?"  Velancourt,  with  gleaming  eyes, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair.  His  face  was  alert  with  vivacity, 
as  Amberley  had  never  seen  it.  He  gave  one  of  his  shy, 
boyish  laughs. 

"Fastidiousness  is  a  sort  of  Hellish  torment.  Fastidious- 
ness is  superabundance  of  kindness  turned  to  acid.  It  cor- 
rodes a  man's  happiness.    I'm  rather  fastidious  myself." 

"But  you're  very  happy?" 

"Am  I?  If  I  am,  it's  only  because  I've  got  plenty  to  do, 
and  plenty  to  interest  me." 

"How  I  envy  you!" 

Amberley  shook  his  head. 

"Why  should  you?  You  can  get  both  plenty  to  do  and 
plenty  to  interest  you.  If  you  desire  a  thing  strongly,  you 
can  obtain  it.  What  prevents  you  from  being  active  and 
interested  is  that  you  desire  also  to  be  quiet  and  withdrawn 
and  solitary.  What  prevents  people  from  attaining  their 
desires  is  that  they  have  so  many  that  conflict  one  with  an- 
other. I  only  simplify  my  desires.  You  can  do  that." 
"No,"  Velancourt  said.  "I  can't  do  that." 
"You'll  see." 

Velancourt  still  shook  his  head  with  a  conviction  that 
filled  his  face  with  sadness. 

"No,"  he  said.  "You  can  do  it :  I  can't.  I  wish  I  could. 
But  now  I  know  that  I  couldn't  do  it.  Still,  it's  been  splen- 
did to  have  this  talk.  It's  heartened  me  up.  I  don't  think 
I've  ever  felt  friendly  to  anybody  before.     I've  never  had 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  149 

a  friend:  I  don't  think  I've  felt  I  could  trust  anybody.  I 
trust  you,  though." 

Amberley  smiled,  a  little  grimly. 

"I'm  very  safe,"  he  said.  "And  you  have  no  responsi- 
bility to  me." 


Ill 

They  went  back  to  where  the  girls  were;  and  presently 
Cissie  and  Velancourt  prepared  to  go  home.  Amberley 
accompanied  them  to  the  end  of  the  road,  through  a  sud- 
denly-dense fog  that  made  the  streets  thick  with  horrible 
slow-wreathing  smokiness,  which  seemed  to  become  abruptly 
thin  and  hesitant  about  the  big  electric  arc  lights.  Susan 
made  up  the  fire,  and  when  he  returned  she  was  sitting  close 
to  it,  with  her  skirt  turned  up  so  as  to  prevent  it  from 
scorching.  She  turned  round  rather  nervously  as  her 
brother  entered,  presenting  to  him  a  flushed,  scorched  face 
that  resembled  more  the  face  of  a  child  than  that  of  a  girl 
of  twenty. 

"Well,  my  lass!"  said  Amberley.  "It's  thick  with  fog, 
outside.    There's  quite  a  mist  in  here." 

"I  think  she's  a  poor  little  thing!"  burst  out  Susan. 
"Very  likely.     And  you're  a  very   sage  and   reflective 
woman,  Sue." 

"And  I  think  he's  a  handsome  simpleton." 
"In  which  again  you  reveal  yourself  a  critic." 
"And  I  can't  see  you  doing  what  he's  done." 
"Wisdom  upon  wisdom!     Though  I'm  not  so  absolutely 
sure  of  my  own  wisdom  as  all  that.    She's  awfully  pretty." 
"And  I  can't  see  myself  doing  what  she's  done." 
"Ah !    There,  dear,  you  step  a  little  outside  the  range  of 
your  own  immediate  knowledge." 

"I  can't."  Susan  gave  a  sign  of  annoyance  almost  in 
excess  of  any  annoyance  she  might  have  been  supposed  to 
feel. 


150  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"You  couldn't.  But  that's  not  really  anything  to  go  by. 
Wait !" 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  said  Susan. 

"You'll  be  married  within  three  years,"  said  Amberley. 

"Really,  Joe !  When  you  get  one  of  these  awful  sen- 
tentious moods  on,  I  could  kill  you !"  cried  Susan,  in  an 
exasperated  voice.  "It's  not  as  though  it  was  genuine. 
You  only  pretend  to  be  so  sententious !" 

"Witness  deposed  to  hearing  accused  threaten  de- 
ceased  " 

"Joe!  You're  horrible.  If  you  know  that,  perhaps  you'll 
describe  my  husband." 

"I  won't — I  wouldn't.  He  will  deserve  you.  He  will  be 
a  good  man.    Within  three  years." 

"Can  you  see  your  future,  too?"  She  was  just  a  little 
intrigued,  ready  to  be  played  a  further  degree  onward. 

"It's  a  little  difficult,  child :  I'm  not  so  easy  to  forecast 
as  you  are." 

"Oh !"  It  was  incredulity  itself.  "Well,  I  hope  you  can 
see  something  nice  ahead  for  those  two  poor  young  people." 

Amberley  became  serious,  and  sat  on  the  hearthrug  in 
front  of  the  fire. 

"Well,  dear:  I  hope  so  too.  D'you  know,  I  can  see  only 
one  thing." 

But  he  would  not  tell  her  what  that  was.  One  does  not 
gain  a  reputation  for  wisdom  by  the  utterance  of  wise 
words ;  but  by  claiming  after  the  event  to  have  anticipated 
it.    This  is  wisdom  itself. 


IV 

The  two  travellers  were  forced  to  climb,  coughing,  to  the 
covered-in  top  of  the  electric  tramcar.  Through  the  mov- 
able window,  which  was  almost  closed,  they  could  peer  out 
at  the  yellow  rolling  fog,  while  they  shivered  with  the  damp 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  151 

cold  and  at  the  seeming  clamminess  of  all  the  wood-and- 
iron-work around  them. 

"Oo,  breezy,  isn't  it!"  Cissie  cried,  snuggling  against 
Velancourt.    He  smiled  back  happily. 

"It's  quite  damp,  too,"  he  said.  "D'you  see  that  other 
tram  all  glistening  with  wet?" 

"I  expect  this  one  is,  too.  Ugh !"  She  shuddered.  "You 
look  happy,  boy!" 

"I  feel  it,"  he  said.    "I  like  Amberley." 

"He's  a  nice  boy.  D'you  like  his  sister?  She's  pretty." 
Her  scrutiny  was  persistent,  though  surreptitious. 

"Very  pretty."  Velancourt  was  not  thinking  of  Susan, 
and  he  assented  in  an  absent  way. 

"D'you  like  her?" 

"I  didn't  notice  her  much." 

"Oh,  what  a  .  .  .  You're  getting  quite  careful !  Ah  me !" 
But  she  was  appeased :  her  eyes  were  not  anxious  any 
longer.  She  relapsed  into  her  own  thoughts :  she  had  given 
Susan  a  long  breathless  history,  spiced  only  with  caution. 

The  tram  took  them,  clanging,  almost  to  the  end  of  their 
own  street.  Every  now  and  then  it  stopped  with  an  alarm- 
ing jerk,  and  sometimes  the  sliding  sinister  form  of  a 
motor  omnibus  would  sway  up  against  them,  as  though  it 
must  surely  collide,  to  disappear  silently  into  the  fog  like 
some  ghostly  vessel.  When  they  passed  a  brilliantly  lighted 
building  they  craned  to  see  the  people  scattered  in  the 
range  of  its  bilious  radiance.  Cissie  gave  occasional  chuck- 
les of  half-sincere  excitement.  Their  walk  from  the  tram 
was  an  elaborate  affair;  and  she  pretended  to  be  more  be- 
wildered than  she  really  was,  in  order  that  she  might  bear 
him  a  little  this  way,  and  be  borne  a  little  that  way,  until, 
breathless  and  gasping,  they  reached  their  home. 

Without  a  fire,  there  was  nothing  for  them  but  bed,  be- 
cause the  sitting-room  was  bitterly  cold.  So  they  lighted 
the  gas  in  the  bedroom,  and  peered  about  in  the  mist ;  and 
Cissie  wiped  the  Pearce  and  Plenty  mirror  with  a  cloth, 
so  that  she  might  be  able  to  see  herself.     She  stopped  im- 


152  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

pulsively  during  her  preparations,  and  came  across  to  Vel- 
ancourt,  touching  his  shoulder,  and  leaning  against  him. 

"Adrian,"  she  said,  in  a  half-choked  voice;  "you  do  love 
me,  don't  you?" 

"My  dearest!"  he  protested,  his  arm  round  her.  "Why 
should  you  doubt  it?" 

"You  don't  say  it." 

"A  thousand  times  a  day,"  he  assured  her.  "I'm  always 
thinking  about  you." 

"When  you're  with  me,  you're  never  as  happy-looking 
as  you  were  to-night." 

He  hesitated,  his  face  against  her,  his  heart  soft  and  full 
of  the  strangest  loyal  humility.  But  his  words,  so  different 
from  his  feeling,  came  out  as  hard  as  stone,  as  bald  as 
unacceptable  truth. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,  dear,"  he  said,  in  the  gentlest 
tone. 

It  hurt  her,  so  that  she  almost  twisted  herself  away  from 
him. 

"I  should !    You  seem  to  think  I'm  a  fool !" 

"But  there  are  things  in  you  I  don't  understand,"  he  pro- 
tested, helplessly.  How  was  it  possible  to  argue  with  her 
about  a  sad  reality  ? 

"What  things  ?" 

Velancourt  thought  a  moment:  many  of  them  were 
things  he  could  not  tell  her. 

"All  sorts  of  things,"  he  at  last  ventured. 

"But  then,  I'm  a  girl."  She  drew  the  word  out  linger- 
ingly,  staunch  in  the  belief  that  her  sex  is  still  the  baffling 
one,  that  its  members  are  ringed  round  with  the  incanta- 
tions of  mystery.    "Men  never  do  understand  girls." 

"Well,  Amberley  makes  me  think — in  some  curious  in- 
explicable way." 

"Don't  I?" 

"You  make  me  feel.  That's  ever  so  much  better !"  He 
was  only  coaxing  her,  as  she  could  see,  and  he  was  doing 
it  improvisingly,  without  much  conviction. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  153 

"I'm  jealous  of  him.  I  want  all  of  you.  I  can't  spare 
you." 

Velancourt  frowned :  his  arm,  about  her,  relaxed  very 
slightly.     She  pressed  fiercely  back  against  him. 

"But  do  you  only  want  all  my  attention?"  he  asked. 
"You  know  you've  got  my  love." 

"I  don't  know  anything.  You're  just  like  a  stranger, 
sometimes." 

"And  what  is  it  you  want?"  In  his  bewilderment  he 
sighed  deeply,  as  though  he  were  past  patience.  Cissie 
slipped  to  her  knees,  holding  him  passionately.  She  did 
not  want  all  this  talk.  It  all  went  nowhere.  She  wanted 
something  he  seemed  never  to  give  her — the  sense  of  com- 
plete, absolute  possessiveness. 

"I  want  you  to  read  me  poitry,"  she  breathed.  "Like 
you  used  to." 

"But  not  to  listen  to  it?"  Velancourt  asked,  with  a  sud- 
den bitter  thought  of  that  other  day. 

"Can't  you  make  me  like  it?"  she  asked,  piteously.  She 
only  wanted  to  keep  him,  by  whatever  means. 

"I'll  take  you  to  Queen's  Hall,  and  we'll  hear  the  music; 
and  be  very  happy.  And  we  shall  both  get  to  understand 
one  another.  And  you'll  always  be  happy,  and  you'll  get 
happier  every  day."    Still  he  was  coaxing  her. 

"But  will  you  be  happy,  too?" 

"I've  got  rather  a  miserable  nature,  Cissie.  .  .  ." 

"You  haven't.  Silly  rubbish.  You're  so  sillified  with 
your  old  books !" 

"Well,  when  the  spring  comes  we'll  go  for  wonderful 
walks,  and  see  the  country ;  and  when  I'm  rich  we'll  live  in 
the  country,  and  go  up  the  hills,  and  look  wide  over  the 
earth,  and  see  all  the  beauties  of  the  world." 

The  fog  was  oozing  in  at  the  window:  the  mirror  was 
misted  over  again :  Cissie  shivered. 

"That  'ud  be  nice,"  she  said.    "Be  lovely !" 

Velancourt  sobered,  thinking  of  the  distance  that  seemed 
to  stretch  between  them  and  the  Paradise  he  had  conjured. 


154  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Amberley  says  I  must  get  away  from  Robinsons,"  he 
said. 

Cissie  stirred  in  his  arms. 

"I  always  said  that,"  she  cried,  in  a  sudden  hard  voice. 
"You  never  took  any  notice  when  I  said  it.  You  just  shook 
your  head.  Now,  because  he  says  it,  you've  made  up  your 
mind.     You're  weak!" 

Velancourt  turned  his  head  away:  into  his  eyes  crept 
again  that  horrible  apathy  that  betrayed  him. 

"He  says  I'm  not.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  easily 
resentful  and  jealous,  Cissie.    It  hurts  me  so  much." 

"Oh,  of  course  I'm  sure  to  be  wrong.  I  know  you  don't 
approve  of  anything  I  am  or  do !"  she  said,  with  bitter 
chagrin.    "I  don't  know  what  your  love's  worth." 

Velancourt  held  her  shoulders,  and  looked  straight  into 
her  eyes ;  and  they  were  angry,  hurt  eyes  which  would  have 
made  even  a  stronger  man  swear  false  oaths. 

"Aren't  you  unfair!"  he  cried.  "When  I  love  you  so. 
I  can't  believe  it's  my  Cissie  that's  talking!  And  it's  not 
true.  It's  not  a  bit  true.  You  know  it  isn't.  But  I  do  wish 
you  wouldn't  be  so  expectant  of  a  grievance.  It's  so  un- 
necessary. I  never  meant  to  hurt.  And  I'm  so  happy, 
Cissie!" 

The  dark  angry  eyes  grew  lighter,  and  grew  pathetic,  and 
grew  childlike.  Cissie's  whole  face  underwent  the  changes 
from  sullen  resentment  to  tranquillity.  Her  quick  breath 
quivered :  she  pressed  her  face  against  his  cheek. 

"I'm  a  little  beast !"  she  whispered.  "I  can't  believe  you 
love  me  as  much  as  I  love  you !  That's  what  makes  me 
.  .  .  makes  me  so  beastly!  Oh,  Adrian,  I'm  so  tired  and 
cross !" 


CHAPTER   XVI 
THE   PROMENADE   CONCERT 

I 

IT  was  a  quarter-to-eight;  and  the  Queen's  Hall  was 
already  well  filled.  In  the  upper  circle  a  few  vacant 
seats  could  be  seen ;  many  places  in  the  grand  circle  awaited 
the  ticket-holders ;  and  the  promenade  itself  was  half 
crowded.  The  fountain  splashed ;  the  big  centre  lights  were 
but  partially  exerted ;  over  the  platform  the  red  shades 
looked  warm  and  inviting.  The  effigies  round  the  walls,  as 
well  as  the  mural  decorations,  were  as  horrible  as  ever.  A 
packed  little  throng  was  stowed  away  in  the  seats  behind 
the  orchestra.  The  harpists  were  busy  tuning  their  instru- 
ments. Cissie  and  Velancourt,  Susan  and  Joseph  Amber- 
ley,  stood,  with  their  peers,  upon  the  floor  of  the  hall. 
Around  them  people  of  all  classes  and  sorts  talked  and 
laughed  and  smoked.  There  were  musical  amateurs,  who 
proposed  tracking  the  pianist  through  her  concerto,  and 
rustling  the  pages  of  their  ostentatious  scores,  thus  adding 
to  the  pleasure  of  those  around.  There  were  insipid  girls 
ready  to  talk  and  laugh  through  the  music ;  and  clerks  with 
quick  sophisticated  eyes  ready  to  level  scrutiny  upon  such 
insipid  girls.  There  were  bearded  men,  suburban  girls  with 
a  passionate  desire  for  cheap  music,  and  young  couples  who 
had  chosen  haphazard  between  the  Queen's  Hall  and  St. 
George's  Hall,  where  Messrs.  Maskelyne  and  Devant  mys- 
tify all  comers.  Very  few  exquisites  from  the  nearer  West- 
ern suburbs  were  there:  the  Promenade  Concerts  are  too 

155 


156  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

democratic,  too  annually  recurrent,  too  free  from  ama- 
teurishness to  attract  the  dwellers  in  the  polite  districts. 
They  are  not  a  fashion:  they  are  a  custom.  Not  a  con- 
vention, but  an  opportunity. 

In  a  very  short  time  the  lights  went  plopping  up ;  and  the 
few  straggling  musicians  were  suddenly  reinforced  by  a 
double — nay,  a  quadruple  stream  of  men,  bearing  their  in- 
struments. Soon  such  a  din  arose  from  the  violins  and 
'cellos  as  to  make  Cissie  give  a  little  squeal  and  stop  her 
ears. 

"It's  awful !"  she  cried  coquettishly  to  Amberley.  Susan 
frowned,  at  which  her  brother  laughed.  Susan  was  fearful 
in  case  Cissie  might  be  a  talker;  but  then  she  might  have 
remembered  that  Cissie  would  not  dare  to  say  anything 
during  the  music  that  evening.     She  was  too  excited. 

The  crowd  in  the  promenade  had  increased.  They  were 
hemmed  in  now,  and  Cissie  and  Susan  had  to  stand  on  tip- 
toe to  see  anything  at  the  front  of  the  platform,  where  the 
decorative  plants  spread  their  broad  arms.  There  were 
small  bursts  of  applause  as  the  best-known  members  of  the 
orchestra  appeared ;  and  a  tremendous  noise  when  the  con- 
ductor came  from  the  left-hand  side  of  the  platform  and 
made  a  slow,  bowing  progress  to  his  stand. 

"Who's  he.?"  demanded  Cissie. 

"Hush !"  said  Susan,  firm,  fierce,  and  almost  ready  to  be 
excited. 

They  heard  the  sweet-voiced  clock  of  St.  George's  Church 
chime  eight. 

"Oo,  prompt,  isn't  he!"  Cissie  said. 

The  conductor  looked  across  his  shoulder  at  the  audi- 
ence, and  Amberley  thought  he  could  not  fail  to  receive  a 
bad  impression  of  them  as  they  stood  there.  Then  the  roar- 
ing of  talk  dropped  to  a  murmur,  and  the  murmur  to  one  or 
two  neighbourly  expostulations  (much  resented)  ;  and  then 
Velancourt  felt  as  though  this  was  the  supreme  experience 
of  his  life.  Very  firmly,  the  orchestra  began  Beethoven's 
Egmont  overture.    He  listened,  as  did  the  lover  in  the  poem, 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  157 

"with  heart  fit  to  break."  It  was  wonderful  to  hear  the 
great  volume  of  musical  noise  swell  and  move  and  change, 
to  hear  the  tiniest  delicious  fragments  that  seemed  to  play 
among  the  majestic  major  themes,  to  hear  the  body  of 
sound,  and  these  sweet  airs,  all  forming  an  indisputable 
part  of  one  grand  whole.  It  moved  him  inexpressibly,  so 
that  he  forgot  his  surroundings  and  his  troubles  and  his  hap- 
piness, in  the  poignancy  of  his  sensations. 

Then,  when  the  audience  was  loosed,  it  was  Amberley's 
turn  to  point  out  how  the  conductor  whipped  round  to  bow 
in  profound  gravity — to  bow  before,  and  to  right  and  left, 
and  then,  as  it  were,  to  the  minor  divisions  of  the  compass 
— all  a  part  of  that  tremendous  grave  paraphernalia  of  show 
with  which  the  concert  world  is  filled.  He  warned  Velan- 
court  to  watch  for  that  moment  when,  after  a  popular  item, 
the  orchestra  itself  must  be  thrown  to  the  lions;  and  Sir 
Henry  Wood  must  even  more  elaborately  and  charmingly 
accept  no  more  than  the  merest  fragment  of  the  audience's 
gratitude  for  his  own  devoted  labours.  Velancourt  listened, 
not  quite  relishing  Amberley's  pleasure  in  these  things — 
not  quite  aware  of  the  faculty  of  enjoying  things,  and  laugh- 
ing at  them  with  enjoyment  and  without  arricre  pensee, 
that  Amberley  so  strikingly  manifested. 

"But  do  you  like  the  music?"  he  asked. 

"Profoundly.     H'sh:  they're  beginning  again." 

Velancourt  never  forgot  that  next  experience — the  sec- 
ond item  on  the  programme.  It  spoke  to  him  alone.  Susan 
thought  it  charming;  Cissie  fidgeted;  Amberley  enjoyed  it 
but  thought  it  sentimental ;  but  to  Velancourt  it  came  like 
some  wonderful  revelation.  It  was  the  Dream  Pantomime 
from  Hansel  and  Gretel. 

II 

Although,  later  in  the  evening,  they  heard  Liszt's  First 
Pianoforte  Concerto,  which  was  so  hard  and  brilliant  that 
everybody  craned  idiotically  to  see  the  pianist's  fingers,  and 


158  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

so  insistent  that  it  reminded  Amberley  of  something  me- 
chanical, and  although  they  had  also  the  ballet  music  from 
Schubert's  Rosamimde,  and  a  Wagner  overture,  and  other 
performances,  both  vocal  and  instrumental,  that  gave  great 
satisfaction  to  the  audience,  nothing  the  orchestra  played 
meant  so  much  to  Velancourt  as  the  Dream  Pantomime.  To 
him,  it  was  the  expression,  in  music,  of  his  own  sweetest 
moods  of  solitary,  formless  dreaming.  Vague  it  might  be  to 
others :  to  him  it  was  the  one  exquisite  flawless  thing  of  the 
evening,  flowing  and  singing  with  a  dim,  pearl-like  beauty 
impossible  to  convey  otherwise  than  through  these  magical 
violins.  It  was  pure  sensation,  not  sublime,  nor  intellectual, 
but  as  though  it  held  beauty  itself  enmeshed  and  unresisting. 
He  realised  the  difference  between  Amberley  and  himself 
by  reference  to  that  one  thing.  Amberley  was  intellectual : 
he  was  not.  Amberley  was  not  scholastic,  nor  academic; 
but  he  was  none  the  less  intellectual.  His  very  pleasures 
must  receive  the  approval  of  his  intellect,  before  he  could 
enjoy  them.  But  Velancourt  felt  that  his  own  case  was 
otherwise.  All  that  part  of  him  which  was  quick  was  not 
intellectual :  the  dead  part,  the  part  that  was  sullen  and 
frustrate,  was  indeed  the  pitiful  hunger  of  a  mind  un- 
trained and  only  partially  alive  to  its  own  needs. 

"If  young  hearts  were  not  so  clever, 
Oh,  they  would  be  young  for  ever: 
Think  no  more ;  'tis  only  thinking 
Lays  lads  underground" 

he  remembered  these  words  from  "The  Shropshire  Lad"; 
and  turned  to  Amberley  with  a  sudden  kindling  of  pity 
in  his  eye.  He  knew  now  why  Amberley  had  confessed  to 
fastidiousness.  His  own  fastidiousness  was  physical,  emo- 
tional ;  Amberley's  was  intellectual.  He  struggled  through 
his  intuitions  to  the  light  of  such  perception.  It  made  clear 
the  wondering  comparisons  he  had  for  these  last  few  days 
been  instituting  between  Amberley  and  himself.  That  was 
why  he  did  not  hear  the  orchestra  playing  "L'Apres  Midi 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  159 

d'un  Faune."  He  only  knew  that  they  played  something 
subdued,  with  little  bizarre  motions  in  it  that  carried  no 
impression  to  his  mind.  Not  his  to  imagine  a  solitary  figure 
sporting  in  the  glade :  his  only  to  receive  unconsciously,  his 
mind  busy  with  incongruous  thoughts.  He  felt  that  he  had 
escaped  from  a  danger.  Association  with  Amberley  might 
make  him  an  intellectual,  inferior  to  Amberley,  because 
less  whole-hearted.  By  himself,  he  was  free.  Slowly  his 
eyes  fell  from  Amberley's  face  to  the  face  of  his  wife, 
standing  and  jerking  her  head  about,  looking  at  the  audi- 
ence, not  listening  to  the  music. 


Ill 

It  was  the  interval ;  and  people  were  moving  about.  The 
Amberleys,  who  generally  left  at  the  interval,  waited  now 
because  they  thought  Cissie  would  like  the  ballads  which, 
with  their  inevitable  encores,  filled  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
short  second  part.  Many  of  those  in  the  audience  went 
out — either  to  go  home  or  to  stroll  in  the  passages — and 
those  who  remained  were  able  for  the  first  time  to  "prom- 
enade." 

"You  getting  tired  ?"  Amberley  asked.  Susan  was  hold- 
ing his  arm  as  a  sort  of  prop,  and  Cissie  had  taken  Velan- 
court's  arm,  so  that  she  could  lean  against  him  and  em- 
phasise to  Susan  the  fact  that  Velancourt  was  her  natural 
protector.  Cissie,  in  fact,  was  inclined  to  do  what  Susan 
did,  in  case  Susan  thought  she  wasn't  as  good  as  she  was. 

"Fine,  thanks,"  Cissie  said. 

Amberley  delivered  up  to  Susan  some  chocolates  he  had 
bought  for  her ;  and  Susan  was  in  the  act  of  sharing  them 
with  Cissie  when  she  saw,  wandering  about  among  the 
other  people,  two  figures  she  recognised.  Should  she  draw 
attention  to  them,  as  the  Velancourts  were  there? 

"Oh,  there's  Barbara,  and  .  .  .  and  ...  her  brother," 
said  Susan's  voice,  while  Susan  herself  was  thinking  about 


160  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

it.  Susan  often  wondered  why  her  voice  did  things  like 
that.  But  it  did,  often.  It  made  her  feel,  sometimes,  that 
her  voice  was  much  younger  than  herself.  It  seemed  so 
impulsive,  whereas  really  she  was  much  more  reserved ;  and 
sometimes  the  things  her  voice  said  were  positively  silly,  as 
she  recognised  as  soon  as  that  busybody  had  spoken  them. 
So  here,  her  voice  had  been  precipitate ;  and  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  follow  the  weak,  over-riding  leader — 
like  some  greedy  lady  hidden  from  her  hostess  by  a  fern, 
who  has  to  leave  her  fruit  half  eaten.  But  then  the  hostess 
would  surely  not  be  in  fault?  Or  would  she?  Susan  didn't 
know :  very  likely  Joseph  could  answer  that :  he  had  an 
answer  for  everything.  She  was  very  sneering  about  him  as 
she  greeted  Barbara  and  Ernest. 

Barbara  came  near  Amberley  with  a  curious  sensation. 
She  had  not  seen  him  since  the  evening  at  Highgate;  and 
her  feelings  had  been  particularly  busy  whenever  she 
thought  of  him.  She  almost  dreaded  the  meeting  which  had 
come  so  obviously  this  evening. 

"How  d'you  do?"  she  said,  and  hastened  on:  "We're 
staying  for  the  'Coppelia'  music  at  the  beginning  of  the 
second  half.  It's  awfully  jolly  music — both  the  waltz  and 
the  mazurka.  .  .  ." 

Velancourt  looked  at  Barbara.  He  had  often  seen  her 
before,  on  the  stairs  at  Great  James  Street;  but  he  had 
never  spoken  to  her.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  any- 
body so  beautiful.  Somehow  she  was  so  erect,  and  her  face 
was  so  full  of  expression,  of  dignity,  that  he  could  not 
help  admiring  her.  He  noticed  Ernest  talking  to  Susan, 
and  smiled  at  their  enthusiasm;  and  then  came  back  to 
Barbara  .  .  .  and  to  Cissie. 

"Adrian,"  Cissie  whispered,  tugging  at  his  arm  to  bring 
back  his  wandering  attention.  "Couldn't  we  go  over  by 
the  fountain  ?    I'm  so  warm." 

"In  just  a  minute,  dear,"  he  said. 

"Why  not  now?" 

"Not  while  we're  with  Miss  Gretton." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  161 

"I  don't  see  why." 

He  wished  passionately  that  Cissie  did  not  seem  so  curi- 
ously insignificant  beside  Barbara  and  that  she  should  not 
at  this  moment  show  that  side  of  her  nature — the  peevish 
side — that  he  was  beginning  to  dread.  It  shamed  him  to 
be  conscious  of  the  fact.  He  tried  to  put  it  out  of  his  mind, 
but  she  kept  on  pulling  his  arm,  until  at  last  he  suggested 
that  they  should  all  move  nearer  the  fountain.  So  he  and 
Cissie  led  the  way,  and  the  others  followed  at  a  slower 
speed.  Barbara,  left  alone  with  Amberley,  could  not  resist 
glancing  at  him,  and  thereupon  steeled  her  heart.  She  had 
never  known  any  young  man  so  apparently  impervious  to 
all  sense  of  her  dignity. 

"I've  been  hoping  to  bring  Susan  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"But  my  people  are  so  busy,  that  I've  actually  been  taking 
work  home,  to  finish  there.  And  the  Velancourts  came  the 
other  evening." 

"They're  not  married,"  said  Barbara,  quickly. 

"Yes." 

She  would  not  say  anything  more  to  him  about  that :  she 
didn't  know  him  well  enough.  But  she  did  know  him  well 
enough,  and  she  knew  it,  for  all  her  jugglings.  She  knew 
him  better  than  she  would  allow  herself  to  believe.  No- 
body now  knew  as  well  as  Barbara  knew  that  she  felt  weak 
before  Amberley — weak  and  resentful  of  his  power  to  make 
her  feel  weak. 

"You  met  Ernest  in  Hadley  Woods,"  she  observed. 

"Also  young  Harry." 

"Oh.    He's  so  terribly  talkative,"  she  said,  disdainfully. 

"He  and  I  are  rather  good  friends,"  Amberley  warned 
her.     Barbara  laughed. 

"You  have  a  great  deal  in  common,"  she  said. 

"Why,  what  can  that  be?"  He  seemed  to  have  over- 
looked her  rudeness,  to  have  ignored  it. 

"I'm  afraid  it  was  too  casual  a  thing  to  say,"  Barbara 
explained,  baulking  him.  "Did  you  like  the  pianist  this 
evening?    I  thought  she  was  very  good,  in  a  hard  way." 


162  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"If  you  care  for  that  First  Concerto — yes.  But  I  don't." 
Amberley  frowned  at  the  recollection.  "There  are  plenty 
of  others  I  like  much  better.  I  like  that  one  of  Tschaikow- 
sky's — I  forget  what  it's  called.  But  most  of  them,  except 
Beethoven's,  get  tiresome." 

"You're  quite  as  oracular  as  Harry,"  Barbara  admonished 
him. 

They  had  by  this  time  overtaken  the  Velancourts. 

"Who's  Harry?"  asked  Cissie. 

"My  little  brother," 

"A  great  friend  of  mine." 

"I  should  think  he's  nice,"  Cissie  said. 

"Well,  you  must  meet  him,"  invited  Barbara.  "I  think 
you  were  coming  one  Thursday,  Mr.  Velancourt?  That 
was  before  you  were  married." 

Not  a  word  now  of  opposition  such  as  she  had  raised 
when  the  coming  was  first  proposed.  So  entirely  kind  was 
her  manner  that  Amberley  glanced  at  her  almost  inquir- 
ingly. He  glanced  away  again  at  once,  however;  and 
missed  her  retaliatory  look,  which  was  as  implacable  as 
ever.  He  thought  it  all  rather  amusing;  but  of  course 
wherever  amusingness  is  very  quiet,  hardly  perceptible,  and 
at  all  subtle,  it  very  quickly  becomes  boring.  He  wasn't 
sure  even  how  long  it  would  remain  amusing  to  himself. 

The  orchestra  was  reassembling  on  the  platform;  and 
people  were  crowding  nearer  the  front  of  the  hall. 


IV 

That  night,  as  they  went  home,  Velancourt's  head  was 
full  of  sounds  and  sweet  airs.  He  could  recall  no  one 
musical  phrase;  but  all  that  he  had  heard  seemed  present 
to  him,  as  though  it  were  being  played  at  a  distance.  There 
was  no  melody,  only  harmony  and  counterpoint  as  many- 
hued  as  Wagner's  own.  He  could  remember  a  sort  of 
vision  of  the  hall — of  innumerable  faces,  and  dark  coats, 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  163 

and  white  collars ;  and  he  could  see  the  orchestra  grouped 
in  an  indistinct  haze ;  and  Sir  Henry  Wood — not  conduct- 
ing, but  standing  with  his  head  bent  and  his  right  arm  by 
his  side.  And  Velancourt  could  recall  all  the  emotions  that 
he  had  received,  here  again,  not  in  succession,  but  then  not 
confused  either:  he  recalled  them  as  though  they  formed 
part  of  some  symphony,  which  was  never  incoherent,  but 
always  the  expression  of  that  underworld  of  feeling  which 
was  the  priceless  treasure  of  his  life.  Especially  clear, 
standing  heightened  by  a  sense  of  their  marvel,  were  his 
feelings  at  the  playing  of  the  Dream  Pantomime  from 
Hansel  and  G  ret  el.  .  .  . 

Oh,  it  had  been  an  evening  beyond  others ! 

"Adrian,  I'm  so  tired,"  said  Cissie. 

"Did  you  enjoy  yourself?    We'll  soon  be  home  now." 

"Not  much,"  she  said.    "The  lady  who  sang  was  nice." 

"Yes,  dear."  He  could  remember  Miss  Gretton  saying: 
"The  zvomans  awful,  of  course !" 

And  there,  Miss  Gretton  was  another  memory.  He  could 
not  forget  her  face.  It  rose  so  distinctly  before  him  that 
the  sense  of  reality  made  him  tingle  with  excitement.  He 
tried  to  describe  it  to  himself,  and  the  face  melted  under 
his  enumerative  efforts.  When  he  desisted  it  formed  again 
before  him,  disquietingly,  to  be  pored  upon  in  memory,  but 
not  to  be  analysed.  Somehow  he  wanted  very  strongly  to 
be  able  to  know  why  it  was  such  a  wonderful  face.  He 
smiled  quite  gaily  in  the  interest  of  his  pursuit.  Well,  he 
should  see  her  again  soon.  She  had  invited  them  to  go  as 
soon  as  they  were  able.  They  would  go  very  soon  indeed. 
It  was  another  wonderful  thing  to  which  they  could  look 
forward. 

Cissie  drooped  against  him  in  the  tram,  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER   XVII 
A  NEW  PHASE 


THE  autumn  grew  deeper,  and  the  evenings  were  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  nights  which  followed  now  so  close 
upon  them.  Quite  early  every  afternoon  lights  began  to 
appear  in  all  the  windows,  and  Amberley  and  Velancourt 
now  left  their  offices  long  after  darkness  had  set  in.  They 
never  met  Barbara  Gretton  now,  for  she  was  also  subject 
to  that  strange  law  which  makes  all  office  labour  greater  in 
the  dark  months,  and  she  arrived  home  almost  invariably 
after  the  two  young  men  had  left.  She  typed  the  manu- 
scripts of  authors  who  wrote  in  crabbed  hands  of  incon- 
ceivable untidiness;  she  deciphered  their  evil  script,  and 
despised  them,  and  at  home  said  never  a  word  of  her  in- 
conveniences, but  showed  quite  clearly  in  what  estimation 
she  held  authors.  She  would  have  to  turn  from  the  social 
conditions  of  Paraguay  to  a  feeble  comedy  which  never 
could  be  produced;  and  from  transcribing  old  Latin  from 
old  books,  and  the  senile  annotations  of  a  dotardly  profes- 
sor, to  the  vacuities  of  a  young  novelist  busily  engaged  in 
sweating  out  witty  conversations  that  set  her  teeth  on  edge. 
She  did  not  dare  to  make  a  mistake :  her  employers  charged 
fifteen  pence  a  thousand  words,  with  the  guarantee  that  the 
work  should  be  done  by  erudite  gentlewomen.  So  obviously 
there  was  no  room  for  mistakes,  whatever  the  weather, 
whatever  Barbara's  feelings,  however  early  the  electric 
lights  should  begin  to  swiggle  in  the  draught  between  the 

164 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  165 

window  and  the  door.  Barbara,  on  the  whole,  was  happy. 
The  worst  handwriting  was  at  last  to  be  read,  and  some  of 
the  ingenuity  needed  recoiled  upon  her  in  the  shape  of 
complacency.  The  feeblest  manuscript  underwent  trans- 
formation in  type,  and  seemed  as  though  Barbara's  contempt 
had  straightened  its  back.  And  she  felt  so  heroically  and 
specially  Barbara  Gretton  at  the  end  of  the  day  that  the 
consciousness  was  worth  all  her  toil.  She  forgot  Amber- 
ley  :  she  remembered  only  how  splendid  it  was  to  be  Bar- 
bara Gretton.  Nobody  but  Amberley  had  ever  seemed  to 
question  that  splendour ;  and  at  the  end  of  each  day  Am- 
berley sank  very  far  into  the  background  under  her  disdain- 
ful disregard.  Amused  at  her,  indeed !  Helpless !  A 
stronger  will !    She  swept  the  phrases  aside. 

It  was  only  when  she  was  really  tired,  in  those  moods  of 
low  mental  vitality  which  are  well  known  to  professors  of 
psychology,  that  the  phrases  crowded  upon  her.  That  was 
because  they  had  been  so  cumulative,  and  so  unexpected. 
They  had  been,  in  a  way,  so  unerring,  expressed  with  so 
much  simple  conviction,  by  people  whom  she  regarded  as 
her  inferiors  in  spiritual  pride,  as  well  as  in  perception, 
that  they  could  never  be  wholly  forgotten.  Singly,  they 
could  have  been  repelled ;  jointly,  especially  as  two  of  them 
belonged  to  the  same  hideous  evening,  when,  somehow,  she 
had  been  less  confident  than  usual,  they  had  combined  to 
disturb  her  memory.  Well,  she  really  couldn't  be  bothered 
with  wondering  what  Amberley  actually  thought  of  her. 
And  yet,  sometimes  she  would  have  given  much  to  know. 
He  seemed  sure  of  himself,  just  as  she  was  sure  of  herself. 
Was  there  a  weakness  in  him  that  she  had  not  discovered? 
Conceit  was  there,  of  course;  and  an  accompanying  ef- 
frontery. He  was  in  that  respect  similar  to  some  famous 
men  whose  vanity  was  a  household  word.  But  he  was  not 
famous.  He  was  a  beggarly  solicitor's  clerk — not  even  an 
articled  clerk!  If  only  his  expression  had  not  been  so 
quietly  sure,  she  would  have  scorned  him ;  but  he  seemed  so 
unreachable  that  he   drew  her  unwilling  attention.     Her 


166  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

mother  liked  him,  her  father  admired  him;  Ernest  seemed 
always  to  be  going  to  see  him.  Why?  Then  there  was 
young  Harry,  whose  opinion  did  not  matter,  except  that  it 
was  more  vocal  than  that  of  the  others.  Susan  idolised  her 
brother.  Why,  again?  Barbara  never  could  get  any  satis- 
faction from  such  musings. 

It  was  certain  in  her  mind  that  Amberley  was  a  per- 
sonality: a  girl  like  Amy  Betters  hated  him;  and  it  seemed 
impossible  to  be  merely  unmoved.  She  herself  felt  quite 
a  strong  dislike  to  him — a  dislike  that  slid  amazingly  off 
into  respect  and  an  extraordinary  interest  in  any  speech  of 
his  which  she  happened  not  to  hear.  It  was  as  though  they 
were  rivals.  What  for?  She  felt  a  rival's  disdain  and 
dread,  a  rival's  need  to  be  fully  aware  of  his  movements, 
a  rival's  jealousy.  It  was  absurd — it  was  perfectly  absurd. 
He  was  just  an  ordinary  conceited  young  man.  But  if  that 
was  so,  why  all  the  feeling  that  he  provoked?  Her  father 
admired  him.  Fancy  anybody  admiring  such  a  man!  If  it 
had  been  just  Ernest  who  admired  him,  that  would  have 
been  simple,  because  everybody  could  imagine  that  Ernest 
was  led  by  Amberley's  greater  assertiveness,  or  by  the  de- 
sire to  please  Susan.  But  then  her  mother  was  a  stout 
defender,  and  her  father  was  quite  downright.  He  said : 
"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Babs,  for  being  so  splenetic !"  What 
could  she  say  in  return?  She  had  simply  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  turned  the  conversation  by  drawing  atten- 
tion to  mud  on  Harry's  collar.  That  was  a  mean  enough 
thing  to  do;  but  Harry  had  revealed  her  whole  intention, 
and  headed  her  back  to  Amberley.  It  was  amazing  that 
she  could  not  escape  from  him !  Everywhere  his  praises 
resounded :  Amy  Betters,  herself  a  conceited  trivial  crea- 
ture, was  alone  his  detractor.  Fancy  being  ranged  with 
Amy  Betters !  It  made  her  uncomfortable.  Amy  Betters, 
with  her  shapeless  clothes  and  that  absurd  knob  of  hair 
gathered  at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  so  meagre  as  to  provoke 
Harry's  ridicule.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  Barbara  to  have 
such  an  ally.    Why  couldn't  she  forget  the  man  altogether  ? 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  167 

That  would  be  the  best  plan,  if  she  could  only  follow  it. 
But  she  could  not  ignore  him,  could  not  forget  him:  he 
was  the  cause  of  the  only  shock  her  pride  had  sustained 
for  many  years.  It  was  not  Amberley,  but  all  that  Amber- 
ley  had  occasioned,  all  that  he  stood  for  in  her  recent  life, 
that  envenomed  her  and  made  the  thought  of  him  the 
spectre  to  haunt  her  moments  of  relaxed  energy.  She 
hated  him  !  Horrible  voices  always  corrected  her :  "You're 
afraid  of  him  .  .  .  afraid  .  .  .  Afraid!"  She  who  had 
never  been  afraid  of  anything!  Who  faced  the  elderly 
lady  who  employed  her !  Who  never  allowed  Miss  Devizes 
to  rebuke  her  without  instant  retaliation !  It  was  madden- 
ing; it  was  as  though  he  alone  threatened  her  peace  of 
mind. 

II 

Barbara  could  not  see  Amberley  without  a  strong  feel- 
ing; yet  it  was  not  mere  aversion,  but  was  joined  to  some 
strange  fascination,  such  as  the  victim  of  a  rattlesnake  is 
supposed  to  feel.  He  made  her  quite  stupidly  young.  She 
could  not  forget  he  was  there.  Even  on  this  Thursday 
evening,  when  Adrian  Velancourt  and  his  wife  were  at  the 
Grettons'  for  the  first  time,  and  when  there  were  perhaps 
a  dozen  other  people  in  the  room,  Barbara  could  not  wholly 
forget  that  Amberley  was  present.  Once,  indeed,  like  any 
self-conscious  girl  in  the  Tube,  she  had  looked  quickly  at 
him,  only  to  wonder  whether  it  was  possible  that  his  eyes 
had  been  as  quickly  averted.  She  tried  to  surprise  him  in 
the  act  of  staring  in  an  ill-bred  way.  Never  could  she 
succeed  !  It  made  her  uncomfortable  again,  with  the  thought 
that  she  had  imagined  that  he  took  any  interest  in  her. 
She  found  herself  weakly  wishing  to  show  him  that  she 
was  not  as  weak  as  he  supposed.  She  found  herself  wish- 
ing that  he  should  accept  her  at  a  true  valuation  instead  of 
at  that  mysterious  valuation  of  his  own.  She  wanted  to 
impress  him.     How  weak  she  felt  herself!     How  much 


1 68  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

like  a  common  girl  who  wanted  to  impress  everybody !  How 
much  like  Cissie  Velancourt !  It  was  out ;  and  her  first 
morbid  thought  was  that  he  perhaps  could  have  understood 
that  she  was  making  such  a  comparison,  and  that  he  was 
scorning  her  for  such  unworthy  vanity.  She  looked  stead- 
ily at  Amberley,  forcing  herself  to  do  it;  and  he  presently 
smiled  across  at  her  in  entire  tranquillity,  talking  all  the 
time  to  Adrian  Velancourt,  who  sat  constrainedly  by  his 
side. 

It  was  that  look  that  drew  her  attention  to  Velancourt. 
It  seemed  that  they  were  friends,  and,  with  great  unwilling- 
ness, she  recognised  that  Amberley's  friendship  counted 
more  with  her  than  did  Ernest's  persistently  agitated  curi- 
osity about  Velancourt.  Ernest  himself  was  there,  half 
listening  to  the  other  two ;  and  she  could  tell  that  he  was 
somehow  not  the  equal  of  either.  Ernest  "hung,"  with  an 
interest  in  everything,  but  in  an  undistinguished  way,  giv- 
ing no  suggestion  that  all  he  absorbed  flowed  naturally  into 
a  great  understanding.  Amberley  somehow  did  give  the 
air  of  understanding.  She  felt  that,  if  only  her  pride  for 
one  moment  had  encountered  such  an  impulse,  she  might 
have  explained  her  own  irritation  to  Amberley  and  received 
his  dispassionate  consideration  of  such  a  state  of  affairs. 
That  was  the  underlying  thought  that  provoked  her:  it  was 
the  idea  that  he  was  both  conceited  and  modest.  She  knew 
he  was  conceited ;  but  she  most  unwillingly  was  forced  to 
admit  that  in  repose  he  was  inoffensive,  that  her  anger  with 
him  was  due  to  something  in  herself.  Amberley  was  not — 
had  never,  since  that  one  accidental  "Barbara,"  attempted 
to  be — familiar  with  her.  If  he  had  been,  she  would  have 
been  able  to  snub  him ;  but  he  was  quite  respectful,  and  in 
no  way  either  pestered  or  withdrew  from  her.  She  felt 
that  she  was  growing,  through  vanity,  too  interested  in  Mr. 
Amberley ;  but  she  had,  nevertheless,  no  power  to  dismiss 
the  interest,  troublesome  though  its  continuance  had  become. 

Well,  if  Ernest  faded  before  Amberley,  so  he  did  before 
Adrian  Velancourt.    Velancourt's  pallor  and  his  clear  dark 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  169 

eyes  gave  her  the  same  sense  of  quality  as  a  picture  by  Ver- 
meer  or  Terborch.  There  was  indeed  quality  in  him,  and,  in 
the  purely  human  aspect  (opposed  to  that  aesthetic  judgment 
that  distinguishes  values  without  the  colouring  of  any  moral 
inference),  he  looked  as  though  he  might  be  one  of  those 
rare  people  whose  power  to  suffer  is  not  circumscribed  by 
their  own  egotism.  She  felt,  though  of  course  she  did  not 
so  clearly  excogitate  the  feeling,  that  he  could  suffer  pas- 
sionately. Even  Amberley  became,  beside  his  friend,  a 
little  arid,  for  just  that  reason.  Barbara  could  not  imagine 
Amberley  suffering  intensely.  In  a  flash  of  resentment  she 
imagined  that  Amberley's  conceit  would  make  him  almost 
impossible  to  hurt. 

And  as  she  felt,  rather  than  thought,  that,  she  saw  Ernest 
take  Amberley's  place ;  and  the  hated  one  came  across  the 
room  to  her.  She  met  his  glance  quite  without  embarrass- 
ment. 

"I  thought  you  were  talking  to  The  Profession,"  he  said. 
Barbara  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,"  she  answered.  "Mr.  Gremble's  been  talking  to 
mother.    They  discuss  plays  together." 

"What  a  waste  of  time,"  he  went  on,  conversationally. 
"I  thought  there  were  no  plays  fit  to  discuss." 

"Aren't  there?"  Her  voice  betrayed  a  sort  of  impudent 
desire  to  suggest  indifference  to  his  opinion,  as  well  as  a 
considered  opposition  to  it. 

"There's  the  drama  of  life.  .  .  .  Still,  that's  a  thing  Mr. 
Gremble  never  gets  near." 

"For  that  matter,"  Barbara  said,  deliberately,  "nor  does 
mother." 

Amberley  sat  down  beside  her,  and  looked  at  her  hands 
as  they  lay  in  her  lap. 

"I'm  not  going  to  commend  your  mother,"  he  told  Bar- 
bara. "She  doesn't  need  it.  But  when  I  know  half  as  much 
as  your  mother  knows  I  shall  feel  as  wise  as  Solomon." 

"I'm  afraid  your  ambition's  unworthily  modest." 

"It's   quite   sincere,"   he   told   her.      Barbara   drew   her 


170  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

breath.  She  felt  quite  extraordinarily  conscious  of  him,  of 
the  fact  that  he  was  beside  her.  She  could  see  the  obscure 
gleam  of  his  teeth  as  he  smiled ;  and  she  could  almost  have 
imagined  an  expression  of  liking  in  his  eyes.  Perhaps  the 
wretched  man,  for  some  reason  known  only  to  himself, 
wanted  this  evening  to  curry  favour? 

"It's  delightful  to  hear  one's  relatives  praised.  But  it's 
a  little  embarrassing,  all  the  same,"  she  said. 

"You  see,  I  even  run  that  risk  in  order  to  be  true  to  my- 
self. Besides,  I  think  very  little  of  Mr.  Gremble's  critical 
gifts." 

"Pooh !  Mother  remembers  Robertson's  plays  with  mar- 
vel. She  dislikes  Wilde  and  Shaw.  She  says  they  'don't 
understand,' "  cried  Barbara,  carried  away  by  the  desire  to 
show  that  she  was  an  up-to-date  critic.  "Her  idea  seems 
to  be — when  it's  reduced  to  intelligible  .  .  .  jargon — that 
Shaw's  humanitarianism's  too  logical,  and  that  Wilde  never 
had  the  least  sympathy  with  human  beings  all  his  life,  and 
in  all  his  works." 

"Perhaps  that's  true,"  suggested  Amberley,  with  guile. 
"About  Robertson's  understanding.  He  understood  the 
human  heart — the  spectator's  human  heart,  that  likes  to 
bask  in  its  own  warmth.  I'm  speaking,  of  course,  from  a 
purely  aesthetic  standpoint." 

"Perhaps  you  never  saw  a  Robertson  play?" 

"I've  seen  Trelawny  of  the  Wells.  Will  that  do  in- 
stead?" 

"They're  terribly  sentimental  and  boring.  They're  form- 
less, and  vapid,  and  horribly  conventional.  They're  not 
real ;  they're  not  witty,  nor  artistic." 

Barbara  was  intent  only  upon  holding  her  own  position. 
She  was  unaffectedly  watching  him  to  see  the  effect  of  her 
vehement  words.  Her  expression  was  alert  and  eager,  so 
that  her  face  seemed  to  glow  with  a  fine  conviction.  She 
was  so  full  of  health  that  she  never  looked  heavy  or  life- 
less ;  but  when  she  was  excited  Barbara's  colour  came,  and 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  171 

her  eyes  sparkled,  and  Amberley  could  only  marvel  at  the 
wonder  of  her. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  Wilde  and  Shaw  can  bear  all  those 
tests,"  he  said.  "In  fact,  I  don't  quite  gather  from  that 
what  you  want  in  a  play.  You  can't  go  to  School,  and  not 
be  moved.  Can  you?"  Barbara  looked  away,  significantly. 
She  had  seen  Robertson's  plays  in  childhood,  when  it  was 
only  right  that  one  should  see  them  as  one  should  read  the 
Victorian  novelists ;  and  her  present  attitude  was  strongly 
reinforced  by  a  chagrined  knowledge  that  she  had  cried 
over  Robertson's  plays  with  an  abandoned  enjoyment.  "You 
can  see  an  inferior  Wilde  play  and  be  bored,"  Amberley 
went  on,  persuasively.  "Wilde's  dating  already,  in  fact. 
As  for  Shaw " 

"Yes,  well,  as  for  Shaw?"  queried  the  champion,  entirely 
trapped  by  his  poor  sophistries.  "I  know  that  very  con- 
ventional people  overestimate  Shaw's  importance  as  a  play- 
wright ;  but  he's  a  wit,  and  his  plays  are  genuine  entertain- 
ments. You  know  quite  well  that  you're  talking  insin- 
cerely." She  raked  him  with  a  scornful  eye.  "I  should 
have  expected  you  to  show  more  sense  of  the  theatre  than 
a  preference  for  Robertson.  It's  such  tawdry  sentimental- 
ism."     She  was  almost  vicious  in  denunciation. 

"I'm  sure  you've  never  bothered  your  head  about  my 
attitude,"  Amberley  insinuated,  artfully.  She  tapped  her 
foot  in  annoyance.  "It  wouldn't  be  worth  while.  As  for 
the  drama  itself,  we'd  better  not  discuss  it.  The  drama's 
quite  self-conscious  enough  as  it  is." 

Barbara  realised  that  she  had  been  unwisely  animated  and 
intimate,  considering  the  contempt  in  which  it  was  notorious 
that  she  held  Amberley. 

"Of  course,  you're  quite  right,"  she  said  equably.  But 
her  eyes  flashed  steel.  "We  can  hardly  mend  matters ;  par- 
ticularly as  you're  so  old-fashioned.  I  do  agree  that  it's 
self-conscious,  but  then " 

"So  are  we  all,"  he  suggested. 

"I  was  afraid  you  were." 


i72  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Amberley  laughed  gleefully,  and  to  her  chagrin  Barbara 
found  his  laugh  irresistibly  infectious.  They  did  not  say 
any  more  for  a  moment,  but  both  involuntarily  looked  at 
Amy  Betters,  who  was  talking  to  a  rather  dirty-looking 
young  artist,  and  trying  to  outshout  Mr.  Gremble.  Mr. 
Gremble  was  reciting  "The  Raven"  to  an  audience  of  two, 
and  he  was  not  averse  from  letting  the  company  hear  of 
him.  Cissie  sat  in  a  corner,  with  Susan  and  Mrs.  Gretton, 
while  Mr.  Gretton  was  standing  near,  smoking,  and  looking 
down  on  the  group  as  though  Mrs.  Gretton  were  almost 
the  most  remarkable  person  in  the  room.  Miss  Betters,  in 
a  green  gown  with  white  sleeves  (as  it  seemed  to  Amber- 
ley's  eye,  but  not  to  Barbara's),  was  flashing  a  smile  at  the 
dirty-looking  artist,  and  talking  in  her  high  hard  voice. 
Amberley  thought  the  voice  very  far  from  being  what  used 
to  be  called  "an  agreeable  rattle." 

"Where  does  your  brother  find  all  these  wonderful  peo- 
ple?" he  asked  in  a  friendly  way. 

Barbara  demurred  at  his  tone  of  raillery. 

"I  thought  he  'found'  you,"  she  suggested. 

"But  then  I  'found'  Susan  for  you,"  Amberley  reminded 
her. 

"You  think  that  wipes  out  the  stain?  Perhaps  you're 
right." 

"I  think  you  like  Susan?" 

"Oh,  very  much." 

"Myself  rather  less?"  There  was  quite  a  challenge  in 
his  voice,  which  made  Barbara  frown.  She  restrained  an 
impulse  to  be  extremely  rude;  and  was  only  a  very  little 
unkind  in  her  deserved  retort. 

"I'm  sure  you'd  rather  have  us  like  Susan,"  she  said, 
drily. 

"Susan  so  easily  wins  friends.  I  only  make  critics,  it 
seems." 

"You  have  mother,"  she  reminded  him.  "I  thought  you 
admired  her  so  much." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  173 

"I  value  her  good  opinion.  'But  a  man's  reach  should 
exceed  his  grasp.'  " 

''Wasn't  that  what  you  complained  of?  Surely  you're 
just  quarrelling  with  truth,  Mr.  Amberley?  There's  always 
the  consolation  that  the  grapes  are  sour." 

"That  I'll  never  believe,"  he  said,  with  decision. 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  such  an  idealist,"  objected  Bar- 
bara. "I  thought  you  prided  yourself  on  being  a  realist,  and 
seeing  everything  at  its  lowest  valuation." 

"Oh,"  said  Amberley,  promptly.  "Are  you  so  very  much 
interested?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  protested,  this  time  very  rude  indeed. 
When  the  words  were  out  she  was  ashamed  of  herself ;  but 
she  could  not  now  apologise  or  withdraw.  He  went  on  in 
a  different  tone. 

"I  hope  you'll  speak  to  Velancourt  this  evening.  He's 
too  shy  to  talk  without  encouragement;  but  I  think  you'd 
like  him  and  find  him  interesting.  Only  you'll  have  to  over- 
come his  shyness." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  Are  you,  like  Ernest,  a  secret  sentimentalist 
over  your  fellow-creatures?" 

Amberley  smiled  again  at  the  attack. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Not  that,  either.  And  I  don't  know 
what  Ernest  may  be,  because  he's  never  discussed  it  with 
me.    I  was  speaking  for  your  own  good." 

"How  very  rude  you  are!"  Quite  brazenly  she  brought 
the  accusation. 

"I'm  not  as  rude  to  you  as  you  are  to  me.  I  never  try 
to  be  rude  to  you." 

Barbara  was  aghast. 

"Whatever  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  with  a  quick  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  required  positively  to  battle  with 
this  monster  for  her  own  liberty  of  conscience,  as  well  as 
for  her  liberty  of  speech. 

"You're  sometimes  very  rude  to  me,  without  any  cause." 

Barbara  frowned,  and  frowned  again,  trying  to  quell  a 
glance  that  she  knew  to  be  both  urgent  and  piercing — such 


i74  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

a  glance  as  she  had  never  received  from  him.  Amberley's 
voice  was  as  quiet  as  ever ;  his  manner  unchanged. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  with  a 
touch  of  sternness  that  made  him  tremble. 

"You  do  know ;  and  I  think  your  own  candour  ought  to 
make  you  admit  it.  You  surely  don't  speak  to  anybody  as 
you  speak  to  me ;  and  if  you  do,  you're  doing  your  own 
sweetness  of  nature  an  injustice." 

At  his  tone  Barbara  was  confused — not  angry,  because 
he  was  quite  clearly  serious.  She  was  almost  triumphant  at 
finding  him  weak.  But  her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  was  less 
steady  than  she  had  hoped  it  would  be. 

"I  can't  suppose  it  matters  to  you,"  she  said,  very  low. 
"You  always  condescend  to  me." 

"Then  is  that  it?"  Indescribable  relief  sounded  in  his 
voice.  He  smiled  as  mockingly  as  ever.  "Of  course,  it 
was  never  true." 

Her  first  horror  had  faded,  for  it  was  thus  that  Amber- 
ley  gave  her  the  unmistakable  admission  of  his  vital  weak- 
ness. She  had  wondered  if  there  was  a  weakness ;  and 
behold  it  lay  exposed  to  her  cruel  eye.  Some  fear  was 
in  him  after  all.  He  was  not  invulnerable.  Even  in  her 
first  perception  of  it  she  doubted;  and  looked  swiftly  at 
him.  She  saw  his  smile,  and  in  that  glance  she  lost  her 
tremendous  opportunity  of  condescending  for  once  to  a 
defeated  foe.  For  in  that  glance  she  showed  that  she  was 
interested  and  even  eager  for  victory.  He  was  back  again 
in  safety ;  and  again  she  had  been  the  one  to  give  ground, 
so  that  she  became  incensed. 

"You've  always  condescended  to  me,"  she  said.  "But  it 
leaves  me  indifferent."  She  was  afraid  of  seeing  his  smile 
deepen,  even  as  she  spoke. 

"Not  wholly  indifferent,"  he  urged.  "But  you  really  do 
me  an  injustice.  I  think,  of  course,  that  you're  an  extraor- 
dinary impostor;  but  I've  never  for  one  moment  under- 
valued you,  or  thought  you  anything  less  than  wonderful." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  175 

He  was  earnestly  speaking  with  a  slow  candour  which  he 
hoped  she  would  respect :  he  was  not  trying  to  insult  her. 

"I  don't  think  anything  I  may  have  said  excuses  that," 
Barbara  said.  She  tried  desperately  not  to  show  how 
deeply  she  was  hurt.  "You're  really  rather  impertinent, 
Mr.  Amberley."  Even  while  she  was  speaking  she  realised 
that  the  little  pathos  in  his  voice  had  found  an  unmistakable 
echo  in  hers.  It  was  as  though  he  had  sought  to  under- 
mine and  riddle  her  implacable  dislike,  and  as  though  she 
had  unwillingly  shown  him  that  he  had  the  power  to  move 
her.  A  slow  red  faintly  coloured  her  cheeks  at  the  recog- 
nition. 

Ill 

Although  they  talked  no  more,  and  although  Barbara 
later  in  the  evening  had  some  conversation  with  both  Vel- 
ancourt  and  his  wife,  she  could  not  now  forget  that  Amber- 
ley  and  she  were  open — was  it  enemies?  If  hostility  to  him 
counted,  the  feeling  was  certainly  one  of  enmity;  but  she 
was  too  excited  to  think  of  it  clearly.  She  knew  only  that 
the  Amberleys  stayed  rather  late,  and  that  the  Velancourts 
went  early,  owing  to  Cissie's  overpowering  sleepiness.  She 
did  not  feel  angry  this  evening  at  Amy  Betters:  Amy  had 
become  simply  a  characteristic  nonentity,  bubbling  though 
she  was  with  assertion  about  Morris  Dancing  and  Futurism, 
Stravinsky,  and  Mahler,  and  Marinetti,  and  Claudel.  Bar- 
bara ignored  all  the  other  visitors.  They  did  not  exist. 
Only  this  dreadful  talk  with  Amberley  hummed  in  her  ears, 
more  intimate,  more  candid,  more  disconcertingly  outspoken 
than  any  previous  talk.  It  was  horribly  clear  to  her  that 
in  some  respect  her  behaviour  had  been  revealed  as  con- 
temptible. She  was  full  of  anger  with  him ;  but  as  full  (it 
seemed,  if  that  were  not  so  palpably  absurd  a  thing  to 
imagine)  of  hatred  for  herself  and  her  own  weakness.  To 
that  choice  collection  of  phrases,  which  rose  nightmare-like 
between  Amberley  and  herself,  there  was  added  one  other : 


176  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"I  think,  of  course,  that  you're  an  extraordinary  impostor!" 
Was  it  possible  to  go  further  in  rudeness?  Yes,  but  she 
herself  had  been  bitterly  rude  .  .  .  bitterly  rude.  Oh,  but 
she  had  not  been  so  shamefully,  so  indescribably  cruel,  as  to 
say  a  thing  like  that.  She  felt  cold  at  the  thought  of  her 
own  voice  trembling  and  saying:  "I  can't  suppose  it  mat- 
ters to  you.  .  .  .  You  always  condescend  to  me."  What 
must  he  think  ?  The  tone  and  the  words  rang  in  her  head 
like  the  piteous  crying  of  a  child,  like  the  voice  of  pathetic 
shame. 

With  clouded  eyes  she  stood  looking  at  Amberley  saying 
good-bye  to  her  mother  and  father.  He  still  held  her 
mother's  hand.  Her  father  was  smiling,  and  had  taken 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to  say  something.  Susan  was 
smiling  up  at  Mr.  Gretton,  and  Ernest  was  standing,  almost 
with  an  air  of  proprietorship,  by  Susan's  side.  They 
seemed  such  a  happy  group — such  an  inept  group  of  aimless 
vacuous  nonentities — that  Barbara  clenched  her  trembling 
hands.  Never  had  she  felt  so  wretched,  so  much  as  though 
she  had  been  abashed  and  insulted  in  public,  as  though  her 
self-respect,  her  vanity,  her  pride,  had  all  been  wounded 
mortally.  The  pain  grew  greater  each  minute :  she  felt  her 
lips  pressed  very  close  together,  as  she  had  always  pressed 
them  as  a  little  girl  when  she  had  been  going  to  cry.  She 
could  not  imagine  how  she  would  be  able  to  restrain  her 
shamed  angry  tears  until  she  should  be  alone  in  the  room. 

Amberley  turned,  and  came  across  to  her,  with  his  hand 
outstretched. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Gretton.  .  .  ."  He  tried  to  force  her 
to  show  some  feeling;  but  she  held  her  head  erect  and  met 
his  eyes  squarely.  If  there  was  any  expression  in  her  face 
other  than  a  frozen  calm  it  was  contempt.  He  bent  his 
head,  and  turned  away;  and  Susan  came  to  kiss  a  cold 
cheek  and  to  feel  cold  lips  upon  her  own  face.  They  were 
out  of  the  room,  with  Ernest  and  Mr.  Gretton  following 
them  down  the  echoing  stairs  to  the  front  door.  Barbara 
and  her  mother  were  alone — Barbara  white  and  frigid  as 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  177 

a  waxen  lily.  And  Mrs.  Gretton  came  to  Barbara's  chair, 
and  put  her  arms  round  her  child's  neck. 

"Dearie,"  she  said,  in  her  little  gentle  voice,  that  some- 
times seemed  fit  only  for  the  foolish  trifling  thoughts  which 
were  not  worth  telling. 

Barbara  began  to  cry,  pressing  her  face  against  her 
mother's  breast,  like  a  little  girl. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
A   PIECE   OF   CISSIE'S   MIND 


CISSIE  and  Elsie  and  the  baby  were  drawn  up  in  the 
magenta  chairs  with  their  gaudy  square  decorations 
of  green  and  yellow.  The  baby  had  a  small  indiarubber 
teat  in  its  mouth — or  in  "her"  mouth,  as  Elsie  would  have 
insisted  upon  your  saying ;  and  its  eyes  were  half  closed  in 
an  inferior  ecstasy.  A  thick  woollen  shawl  was  pinned  be- 
fore with  a  safety-pin  that  had  a  great  diamond-shaped 
piece  of  blue  glass  in  it.  The  baby's  head  was  covered  with 
a  soft  dark  down ;  and  it  lay  in  Cissie's  arms  with  its  wax- 
like toes  gathered  into  two  small  posies.  Cissie  could  not 
sometimes  help  crushing  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and,  under 
Elsie's  half-complacent,  half-jealous  scrutiny,  kissing  the 
dark  down  with  secret  ferociousness.    Cissie  was  speaking. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  "I  said  to  him:  Well,  Adrian,  I 
said;  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that,  boy.  .  .  .  See, 
he  doesn't  want  to  get  them.  He  says  if  we  just  had  a  bed 
and  a  table  and  a  couple  of  chairs  we  should  be  as  right 
as  anything.  Won't  see  it.  I  said — you  know,  I  said  you 
and  Bert  had  gone  to  them,  and  would  have  paid  it  off  in 
another  eighteen  months.  He's  got  some  idea  that  it's 
wrong,  and  that  they  come  down  on  you — says  they  only 
wait  till  you  can't  pay  an  instalment,  and  then  come  and 
take  everything  away — after  you've  paid  all  that  money." 

"Oo,  he  is  silly.  .  .  ."  Elsie  put  in,  and  clucked  her 
tongue.    "You  must  have  a  home.  .  .  ." 

178 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  179 

"He  was  angry  when  I  said  that  about  you  and  Bert. 
He  gets  white,  you  know.  Stared  at  me,  and  said :  Good 
gracious,  don't  you  see  that's  just  a  reason  for  not  doing  it ! 
I  said — I  was  rather  sharp  with  him,  because  I  wasn't  going 
to  have  that  always  coming  up — I  said :  What's  the  matter 
with  Bert  and  Elsie  ?  You  know ;  he  fidgeted,  and  opened 
his  mouth.  ...  I  was  wild,  too.  I  said  :  Aren't  they  good 
enough  for  you?  Told  him  about  Bert  going  to  them  and 
having  a  row  with  the  manager.  Adrian'd  rather  be  cheated. 
He  hates  a  fuss — thinks  he's  proud;  but  it's  not  pride,  but 
only  he's  timid.  If  I  speak  sharply  to  him,  he  looks  pious 
and  gets  sulky.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  have  it.  If  he 
wants  to  get  away  from  old  mother  Robbis's  rooms,  and 
take  this  flat,  we've  got  to  have  some  furniture,  like  it  or 
not.  And  there's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  do  it  that 
way.  You  did  it.  You  didn't  miss  the  instalments.  He's 
getting  quite  as  much  as  Bert  was  when  you  married ;  and 
yet  he  says  he  doesn't  want  to  'incur  the  liability.'  I  told 
him :  Well,  boy,  if  you're  content  with  bare  walls,  I'm  not. 
Why,  I'd  rather  stay  where  we  are,  cos  the  place  is  fur- 
nished. Only  you  want  a  home :  it's  nice  to  feel  you're 
shut  off.  Mrs.  Robbis  drinks.  Sometimes  she  goes  feeling 
down  the  banisters  till  my  heart's  in  my  mouth  .  .  ." 

"He's  peculiar,"  Elsie  said.     "He's  not  like " 

"No,  I  know  he's  not  like  Bert  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause:  Cissie  thought  him  so  much  better 
than  Bert,  and  Elsie's  precautionary  admiration  for  Bert 
was  very  quickly  aroused,  simply  because  it  was  founded 
upon  a  species  of  blind  and  dreadful  jealousy.  She  sat 
drooping  over  Cissie,  with  her  brow  puckered. 

"Took  me  out  to  a  grand  party  the  other  night — no  sing- 
ing or  dancing  or  anything.  Everybody  just  talked.  It 
was  stupid.  That  little  Susan  Amberley  was  there.  I  don't 
like  her  much — she's  always  laughing.  She's  silly.  Her 
brother's  nice."  Cissie  rocked  the  baby,  and  smoothed  away 
a  ruck  of  clothing  at  its  throat.  "Precious  little  pet,"  she 
murmured. 


180  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"What's  he  like?"  Elsie  was  only  vaguely  interested; 
but  she  made  a  point  of  having  these  things  settled. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  He's  dark,  and — you  know,  dark 
and  tall.  Rather  good-looking.  I  don't  altogether  like  him. 
He's  sneery  .  .  .  not  sneery,  but  makes  people  laugh  and 
you  don't  know  why.  He's  nice  to  me — says  I'm  pretty. 
Ah  me !" 

"So  you  are!" 

"So  you  say.  .  .  .  Adrian  never  says  it.  Never  goes  to 
see  mother.  He  is  funny :  I  can't  make  him  out  sometimes. 
He  comes  home  and  acts  as  if  I  wasn't  there.  Sits  in  a 
chair,  and  stares.  I  say  to  him:  What's  the  matter,  boy? 
Give  me  the  fair  old  jumps,  you  do.  He  says:  Nothing; 
and  then  he  wakes  up." 

"Is  he  ...  is  he,  you  know,  quite  .  .  ."  Elsie  was  very 
diffident  .  .  .  "quite  right?" 

"It's  only  his  way."  Cissie  felt  rather  older  than  Elsie. 
"I  just  let  him  alone  as  a  rule.  Give  him  a  book  and  he'll 
be  quiet  for  hours.  I  tried  some  of  them.  Not  for  me ! 
Why,  I'd  rather  read  Bert's  papers." 

"Oo,  they  are  awful,  Cis.    There's  one "    Elsie  could 

not  bring  herself  to  describe  it,  and  she  couldn't  find  the 
paper,  so  Cissie  had  to  go  jokeless. 

"Never  mind.  I  don't  know  why  you  read  them,"  she 
said. 

"I  don't ;  but  I  saw  that  one.  .  .  .  You  can't  help  looking 
at  them." 

"I  wonder  why.  I'd  like  to  know  why  you  do  all  sorts 
of  things." 

"What  things?" 

"Well — get  married,  for  one." 

"Well,  you  can't  go  on  staying  at  home,  girl.  Nobody 
wants  you  there." 

"Oh,  it's  better  than  that."  Cissie  sighed.  Elsie  had 
got  her  Bert;  and  she  knew  his  ways.  But  Cissie  felt  that 
Adrian  was  a  larger  problem. 

"You  like  Adrian,  don't  you?     And  he's  fond  of  you?" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  181 

"Yes,  of  course,  he's  fond  of  me.  What  a  girl  you  are— 
always  thinking  he  .  .  .  Oo,  goodness,  I  wouldn't  dream 
of  going  back  to  mother!    Not  likely!" 

"You  are  a  funny  girl !  Not  married  a  month,  and  you're 
talking  like  that." 

"Well,  wouldn't  you  have?  Only  you  hadn't  got  any- 
body to  say  it  to — except  mother." 

"Never !"  Elsie  could  say  it  with  a  clear  conscience :  she 
had  forgotten.  Of  course,  the  excitement  had  died  away 
gradually.     "Wait  till  you  have  a  baby !" 

Cissie  squeezed  Elsie's  baby  tightly.  She  understood 
the  truth  of  that. 

"No;  but  what  I  mean  is  .  .  .  Adrian's  so  ...  oh,  I 
don't  know !" 

Cissie  could  not  explain  to  Elsie.  She  couldn't  bring  her- 
self even  to  admit  her  real  feelings;  she  was  unpractised 
in  the  expression  of  her  emotions ;  and  in  addition  to  that, 
although  she  might  talk  overmuch  and  "give  away"  a  great 
deal  to  Elsie,  she  could  never  dream  of  expressing  the 
naked  truth  of  her  mind.    To  nobody  could  she  do  that. 


II 

"Well,  this  won't  do !"  said  Cissie.  "I  must  go  home  and 
get  my  boy's  tea." 

"Oo,  you  spoil  him!"  Elsie  cried.  "When  I  go  to 
mother's  I  leave  Bert  something  cold." 

"You  may  do  noiv,"  said  Cissie,  practically.  "I  bet  you 
didn't  a  year  ago." 

"No;  but  he  was  always  wanting  me  at  home  then." 

"Isn't  he  now?"    Elsie  shook  her  head. 

"Course,  he  likes  me  to  be  here.  But  he  says  to  me, 
T  don't  like  you  to  be  always  at  it'." 

"I  know.  I  don't  know  what  Adrian  would  do  if  I 
wasn't  at  home.  He'd  never  think  of  looking  in  the  cup- 
board for  himself." 


182  ON. THE  STAIRCASE 

"Wouldn't  he?  Different  to  Bert.  When  Bert's  finished 
he  often  looks  in  the  cupboard.  I  sometimes  put  a  cake 
in  there  for  him  to  find.  He  likes  that.  He  slaps  me — 
not  hard,  you  know.  He  says:  'Tryin'  to  hide  it,  were 
you  !'    He  is  a  boy  for  cake !" 

"D'you  make  it  yourself?" 

"Oo,  no.     I  haven't  got  time." 

Cissie,  with1  a  curled  lip,  remembered  the  pale  speckled 
bought  cake  she  had  sometimes  seen. 

"I'm  going  to  make  Adrian  a  pudding  to-night,"  she  said, 
with  a  superior  air,  born  of  contempt  for  the  cake. 

Elsie  inclined  her  head  with  wide-open  eyes  of  stimulated 
interest  and  surprise. 

"Shouldn't  have  thought  he'd  a  liked  that  sort  of  thing," 
she  said.  "Cakes  and  puddings.  I  should  have  thought  he 
wanted  wafers  and  cream  cheese,  and  an  egg  in  his  tea. 
Looks  so  delicate,  as  if  he  wanted  building  up.  Not  like 
Bert!" 

Cissie  sighed  again  at  the  inevitable  comparison.  She 
had  often  to  bully  Adrian  by  asking  if  he'd  liked  his  food; 
and  he  only  said  "It  was  very  nice"  under  compulsion.  He 
really  didn't  seem  to  notice  what  he  ate. 

"Oh,  he's  awfully  fond  of  it,"  she  lied.  "Says  I'm  a 
splendid  cook.  Well,  I  ought  to  be,  cooking  so  long  at 
home.    Mother  misses  me,  I  expect.    And  father,  too." 

"Course,  mother  always  says  that  now  she  can  do  things 
as  she  wants  them  done." 

"Oh,  she  is  a  beast !" 

"Cissie!"  Elsie  was  very  shocked  at  such  an  undaugh- 
terly  sentiment. 

"I  think  she  ought  to  have  pins-and-needles  in  her  tongue 
every  time  she  says  a  thing  like  that.    I  do,  really." 

"Tk  tk  tk.  There!  Oo,  and  I've  never  put  on  Bert's 
meat  for  his  supper!" 

"I  thought  you  never  bothered  about  Bert!"  jeered  Cis- 
sie, with  a  keen  light  in  her  eye. 

"And  there's  that  fire  going  out.  .  .  .    Oh,  did  she !    She 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  183 

wants  her  mummy!"  The  baby  had  begun  to  cough  and 
splutter  over  a  misdirected  breath;  so  Elsie  took  her  and 
went  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  while  Cissie  put  some 
coal  on  the  fire  and  went  to  fetch  her  coat  and  hat. 

The  two  sisters  kissed  with  lukewarm  affection,  and 
parted.  Cissie  went  out  of  the  house  with  her  head  erect, 
thinking  with  a  new  contempt  of  the  Bert  Tebbers' 
menage.  Adrian  and  she  were  ever  so  much  better  than 
that! 

Ill 

Nevertheless  Cissie  walked  soberly  home,  and  when  she 
had  made  her  pudding  and  when  it  was  in  the  pot  on  the 
fire,  she  sat  down  feeling  a  little  tearful. 

It  was  all  very  well  to  say  that  she  and  Adrian  were 
better,  but  she  was  really  not  quite  happy  about  him.  She 
was  resentful  at  her  own  failures,  resentful  at  his ;  and  she 
could  not  quite  understand  the  reason  of  his  occasional  fits 
of  depression.  Only  a  sort  of  pride  sustained  her  at  times, 
a  determination  to  win  through  her  difficulties.  But,  even 
in  her  resentments,  she  could  not  fail  to  realise  that,  if  the 
Promenade  Concert  and  the  party  were  fair  samples,  her 
tastes  in  entertainment  and  Adrian's  were  very  different. 
And  she  resented  most  of  all  his  endeavours  after  patience 
with  her  shortcomings.  It  made  her  savage  that  he  should 
have  to  be  patient.  Why  couldn't  he  be  more  like  other 
men  ?  Why  should  he  always  suppose  the  fault  to  be  hers  ? 
Sometimes  she  knew  she  said  something  that  hurt  him ;  but 
he  never  told  her  what  it  was !  If  he  had  told  her,  she 
omitted  to  think,  she  would  have  been  equally  angry:  that 
was  an  outside  thought,  which  did  not  enter  into  the  case. 
When  she  was  savage,  she  shook  with  anger.  She'd  got 
him :  he  was  hers :  she  must  keep  him.  Yet  hardly  a  day 
was  without  its  misunderstanding — some  of  them  trivial, 
but  all  adding  a  little  to  the  bitterness  of  her  occasional 
mood  of  reflectiveness. 


1 84  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Supposing — only  supposing,  Adrian  should  really  get  to 
know  that  .  .  .  She  could  not  face  such  a  definite  thought 
of  the  failure  of  love.  Supposing  it  should  happen  that — 
well,  that  Adrian  should,  for  example,  be  right  about  the 
difficulty  of  getting  a  better  situation.  Supposing  they 
should  move  to  the  Hampstead  flat,  as  he  wanted  to,  and 
that  they  should  get  fifty  pounds'  worth  of  furniture  on 
the  hire-purchase  system  as  she  wanted  to :  and  supposing 
he  were  to  be  out  of  a  situation.  She  could  not  say,  as  a 
more  sentimental  girl  would  have  said,  that  they  would 
still  have  their  love.  Cissie  knew  too  much  about  poverty 
to  say  that.  She  really  dreaded  it :  she  knew  that  poverty 
— abject  poverty — breaks  such  love  as  hers  as  nothing  else 
in  the  world  does.  It  breaks  such  love  because  it  breaks 
self-respect.  She  dreaded  poverty.  She  must  not  let 
Adrian  drift  into  anything  that  threatened  such  a  result. 
Unfaithfulness,  a  man's  unfaithfulness,  would  never  break 
up  such  a  home  as  quickly  as  honest  degraded  hopeless  pov- 
erty would  do.  Poverty,  with  no  money,  and  no  means  of 
getting  money,  would  send  Adrian  to  the  wall.    She  knew  it. 

There  was  still  that  thought  that  she  shirked.  Suppos- 
ing Adrian  drifted  away  from  her,  and  found  she  didn't 
like  the  things  he  liked,  and  that  he  hated  the  things  she 
prized.  Supposing  he  grew  to  think  of  her  as  always  at 
home,  an  unwelcome  and  unwelcoming  wife;  and  began  to 
think  of  some  one  of  these  other  swell  girls  that  he  had 
met  since  their  marriage — Susan  Amberley,  for  instance,  or 
.  .  .  that  beast  of  a  girl  at  the  Concert  and  the  party,  with 
her  fine  lady's  airs  of  dignity,  and  her  contempt  for  people 
who  were  every  bit  as  good  as  herself  .  .  .  What  would 
happen  then? 

Cissie  bent  lower,  and  swallowed  quickly,  and  put  her 
handkerchief  to  her  burning  eyes.  It  was  as  though  she 
had  opened  the  forbidden  door  into  her  treasured  and 
guarded  bitterness. 

Supposing  Adrian  should  ever  find  out  the  frightful  se- 
cret— that  he  didn't  love  her,  and  never  had  loved  her? 


CHAPTER   XIX 

POISON 

I 

THE  Velancourts  took  the  unfurnished  flat  at  Hamp- 
stead.  They  also  bought  fifty  pounds'  worth  of  new 
furniture  on  the  hire-purchase  system,  and  it  came  and 
stood  with  uncomfortable  sparseness  in  their  new  rooms, 
shining  with  varnish,  and  looking  as  brittle  as  glass.  They 
had  one  wooden  arm-chair  and  one  upholstered  one  that 
wrinkled  and  flattened  after  being  used  for  the  first  week. 
They  had  a  shiny  wooden  bedstead,  and  six  shiny  wooden 
chairs,  and  a  plain  table,  and  a  combined  dressing-table  and 
washstand,  and  some  pictures,  and  a  mirror,  and  a  steel 
fender  which  it  delighted  Cissie's  heart  to  keep  burnished 
as  bright  as  silver.  And  in  the  new  flat,  with  its  sitting- 
room,  and  bedroom,  and  kitchen-scullery,  they  were  as  snug 
as  it  was  possible  to  be.  The  books,  as  Adrian  pointed 
out,  were  furnishing  in  themselves :  they  stood — about  fifty 
of  them — like  a  regiment  of  recruits,  tall  and  short,  bright 
and  dull,  red  and  brown  and  blue  and  green,  rich  in  prom- 
ise ;  but  to  Adrian  alone. 

Also,  Velancourt  began  to  write  after  situations  which 
he  saw  announced  as  vacant  in  newspaper  advertisements. 
One  evening  he  began  to  write  an  essay  on  Keats,  under 
Cissie's  partly-deprecating,  partly-wondering  contemplation. 
She  saw  him  with  paper  and  pen  and  ink  and  book,  and 
saw  words  appear  on  the  paper;  and  when  she  could  see 
that  he  was  not  copying  anything,  but  making  it  up  out  of 

185 


186  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

his  own  head,  she  felt  awestruck  and  nervous.  If  he  was 
going  to  be  like  this,  she  thought,  and  make  up  things,  he 
would  begin  to  despise  her.  Of  course,  it  would  be  rub- 
bish ;  but  .  .  .  She  began  to  dislike  his  paper  and  his 
books.  They  were  things  behind  which  he  was  entrench- 
ing himself.  Books  were  still,  as  they  had  been,  the  enemy. 
She  would  have  liked  to  burn  them  all — nasty  old  things ! 
What  was  the  good  of  books,  of  poetry?  If  it  was  some- 
thing he  was  learning,  it  would  have  been  more  tolerable. 
If  he  had  been  learning  carpentry,  which  was  useful,  or 
even  some  such  useless  hobby  as  fretwork,  she  would  have 
recognised  it  as  at  least  an  attempt  in  the  right  direction. 
It  would  at  any  rate  have  been  manual  labour.  But  to 
make  up  a  lot  of  soulful  rubbish  about  a  lot  more  soulful 
rubbish — what  was  the  need  of  it?  She  would  hear  him. 
whispering  to  himself,  in  a  sort  of  trance : 

"  'Thou  still  unravished  bride  of   quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express  .  .  .' " 

as  though  he  were  drinking  wine,  or  seeing  angels,  or  smok- 
ing opium.  .  .  . 

When  the  essay  came  back  from  the  magazines  to  which 
it  was  sent,  Cissie  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  triumph. 
She  had  known  how  it  would  be.  You  had  to  be  very 
clever  to  have  things  printed,  and  Adrian  wasn't  clever. 
She  knew  he  wasn't  clever.  Nobody  you  knew  was  ever 
really  clever :  you  said  people  were  clever,  but  only  with 
condescension.  You  didn't  really  believe  it.  When  she  had 
looked  at  Adrian's  essay  she  had  been  just  a  little  afraid  that 
he  was  clever,  and  jealous  of  the  essay  written  in  such  a 
beautiful  handwriting.  "It's  nicely  written,"  she  had  said. 
"But  you  haven't  read  it,"  Adrian  had  said.  "Oh,  I  meant 
the  writing"  she  had  told  him.  She  had  known  it  was  only 
wasting  time — and  stamps.  She  had  done  her  utmost  to 
discourage  him  from  writing  again,  or  sending  the  essay 
out.    She  couldn't  understand  why  it  was  that  her  attitude 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  187 

— which  was  all  for  his  good — should  make  him  angry.  He 
might  have  known  that  it  was  no  use  for  him  to  think  he 
could  write  like  one  of  his  blessed  old  books. 

"Aren't  there  enough  books  in  the  world  already,  boy?" 
she  asked  him. 

Adrian,  in  silent  distress,  took  the  essay  to  Amberley; 
with  his  fierce  heart  like  lead.  He  so  strongly  agreed  with 
her  sentiment,  and  yet  his  pride  was  so  much  involved  in 
this  matter.  He  did  not  think  to  tell  her  that  books  were 
babies,  which  might  have  startled  awake  some  sympathies 
in  her  mind. 

Amberley  gave  him  good,  but  unacceptable  advice.  He 
took  down  A.  C.  Bradley's  Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry,  and 
showed  Velancourt  that  the  essay  on  Keats  in  that  book 
made  his  own  look  silly.  He  showed  him  that  it  was  not 
enough  to  be  excited  by  the  sensuous  beauty  of  Keats's 
poetry,  and  that  to  write  even  intelligent  criticism  of  any- 
thing, it  was  necessary  to  have  at  least  some  rough  code 
of  first  principles.  He  lent  him  Lessing's  Laocoon,  and 
Keats's  letters,  emphasising  the  fact  that,  by  Poe's  theory, 
Keats  was  analytical  as  only  the  truly  imaginative  could  be. 

"He  was  a  critic,"  Amberley  said.  "But  he  had  poetic 
invention.  People  confuse  poetic  invention  with  imagina- 
tion. Imagination  is  simply  the  faculty  of  intense  sym- 
pathy: it's  not  creative,  but  interpretative.  It's  just  this 
lack  of  first  principles  that  makes  newspaper  critics  so  vacil- 
lating. They'll  tell  you  some  conventional  muck's  full  of 
imagination  because  the  man  dashes  from  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  to  fireflies,  and  then  into  the  story  of  Queen  Lollipop 
and  the  Dustman's  Beard  ...  all  that  tripe.  You've  only 
to  be  unreal  enough  to  be  called  imaginative.  But  that's 
fancy,  ingenuity,  inventiveness,  lunacy — not  their  blessed 
imagination.  When  somebody  imagines  something  so  con- 
vincingly that  they  believe  it,  they  call  him  a  photographer. 
Ungrateful  dogs !" 

He  thus  restored  Velancourt's  equanimity  by  taking  his 
mind  off  himself.    Velancourt  went  home  by  the  road  along 


188  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

the  top  of  Hampstead  Heath,  with  the  treasureable  books 
under  his  arm,  and  his  head  among  the  bright  stars.  And 
as  Cissie  had  gone  to  bed,  lonely  and  miserable,  he  sat  up 
and  began  to  read  Keats's  letters,  than  which,  of  course, 
there  is  no  more  delightful  occupation.  When  his  f sver  for 
Keats  grew  into  an  enthusiasm  for  Keats  associations,  and 
when  he  went  often  to  see  the  relics  at  West  Hampstead, 
and  wandered  about  among  the  places  that  Keats  had 
known,  Cissie  began  to  hate  Keats,  and  to  fear  the  influence 
of  Joseph  Amberley.  She  thought  roughly  about  them, 
and  sometimes  knocked  books  on  to  the  floor,  in  a  sort  of 
fluster  of  exasperation.  And  after  that  she  would  begin 
to  cry  to  herself,  saying,  "I  won't  stand  it !"  until  she  grew 
calmer,  and  dried  her  cheeks  and  lashes  with  a  ball  of 
handkerchief  held  in  unruly  trembling  hands.  Then  she 
called  herself  a  fool  for  her  pains.  She  was  very  lonely, 
with  very  little  work  to  do,  and  no  friends.  Adrian's 
friends  somehow  were  not  her  friends.  They  were  quite 
pleasant  to  her,  as  she  felt  when  she  was  with  them;  but 
afterwards  she  was  conscious  of  some  difference,  as  though 
they  shrank  ever  so  little  at  her  attempts  to  show  that 
she  was  their  equal. 

"I'm  just  as  good  as  they  are,"  she  told  herself  queru- 
lously.    "Every  bit!" 

II 

Velancourt  tried  to  grasp  his  own  shortcomings ;  but  that 
only  plunged  him  deeper  in  misery,  as  though  he  might 
have  committed  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost.  He  began 
to  have  dreadful  moments  of  poignant  pity  for  Cissie,  to 
wish  to  abase  himself  before  her.  He  could  not  find  in  his 
books  more  than  passing  delight :  he  read  them  under  her 
eye,  and  became  almost  furtive  in  producing  them.  And 
Cissie,  dreading  a  long  silent  evening,  wanting  only  the  as- 
surance of  his  love  for  her— blindly  and  angrily  feeling 
that  he  wantonly  withheld  it,  although  the  knowledge  that 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  189 

she  was  wrong  was  as  salt  to  the  wounds  of  resentment — 
looked  askance,  and  sometimes  uttered  strangled  reproaches 
that  still  further  froze  his  unwilling  reserve.  He  put  away 
his  Keats  essay,  more  than  ever  conscious  that  he  was  not 
fit  to  write ;  and  he  answered  more  advertisements,  and  was 
discouraged  afresh  by  the  absence  of  replies  from  the  ad- 
vertisers. He  went  to  Amberley  for  solace,  but  could  not 
open  his  heart,  because  loyalty  to  Cissie  was  his  most  con- 
stant and  repressive  thought;  and  so  Amberley's  long  and 
humorous  harangues  were  effective  only  while  the  two  were 
together,  and  were  swallowed  on  his  return  journey  by  the 
mere  sense  of  contrast  between  the  happy  home  he  had 
left  and  the  home  of  misunderstanding  to  which  his  steps 
were  directed.  And  Cissie  was  not  one  to  suffer  in  silence, 
but  she  could  not  say  what  she  felt,  and  was  only  success- 
ful in  appearing  disagreeable,  however  bitterly  she  might 
reproach  herself  immediately  after  provoking  some  such 
useless  and  trivial  disunion  of  mood.  It  was  extraordinary 
that  Adrian  never  doubted  his  love  for  Cissie,  and  that  she 
never  lost  his  admiration.  He  might  sometimes  feel  for  her 
an  emotion  that  approached  hatred ;  but  he  never  ceased  to 
revere  her.  She  was  his  wife,  inevitable,  full  of  power  to 
awaken  in  him  strange  dreads,  and  angers,  and  dreadful 
sensations  of  repulsion ;  but  her  mood  was  always  impor- 
tant to  him,  and  he  desired  her  happiness  above  all  things, 
above  all  thought  of  his  own  happiness.  He  was  puzzled, 
troubled,  gloomy,  thoughtful,  even  vehement;  but  she  dom- 
inated his  outlook.  He  took  her  for  granted  as  the  greatest 
thing  in  his  daily  life.  He  did  not  dare  to  tell  her  his 
thoughts  about  love :  she  somehow  belonged  to  a  quite  dif- 
ferent range  of  sensations.  She  would  lie  passive  in  his 
arms  during  long  periods  of  timeless  silence,  like  a  baby  at 
the  breast,  consumed  in  utter  sensation,  thoughtless  and 
without  emotion.  And  Velancourt's  mind  would  remain  at 
some  insoluble  difficulty,  and  his  brow  would  pucker,  and 
his  eyelids  droop  while  he  sat  thus  enchained  in  oblivion. 
They  were  not  dreams  he  then  dreamed;  only  a  complete 


190  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

paralysis  of  stillness  had  crept  upon  him,  and  even  his 
senses  were  lulled  into  a  sort  of  droning  lethargy,  so  that 
he  swayed  very  gently,  as  trees  seemed  sometimes  to  sway 
before  him  on  bright  windless  days  when  his  eyes  had  fixed 
in  a  tranced  reverie  and  the  low  murmur  of  the  empty  coun- 
tryside was  in  his  ears  like  fairy  music,  wistful  and  tone- 
less. There  was  no  semblance  of  joy  in  his  days,  no  hint  of 
that  innocent  sparkle  of  nonsense  that  he  found  at  the  Am- 
berleys'.  He  awoke  from  such  trances  as  he  might  have 
awakened  from  too-heavy  sleep,  with  a  sense  of  stale 
drowsiness,  a  feeling  of  shivering  regret  for  old  days  of 
crystal  dreaming,  when  his  delight  in  the  world  was  that 
of  one  who  was  beyond  the  world,  in  a  dim  realm  of  secret 
and  incommunicable  beauty. 


Ill 

Once  or  twice  Velancourt  saw  Barbara  in  the  street.  He 
experienced  a  thrill  of  rare  and  quite  exquisite  pleasure, 
because  she  so  eminently  pleased  his  eye.  Whenever  he 
had  seen  her  the  after  recollection  was  strangely  vivid,  a 
something  distinct.  She  was  like  one  of  Amberley's  facts, 
but  more  pleasant.  She  had,  to  Velancourt,  all  the  objec- 
tive reality  of  a  fact,  without  a  fact's  unwelcome  air  of  in- 
trusion. It  was  as  though  she  had  been  the  central  point 
of  one  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  famous  examples  of  chiaroscuro. 
As  Velancourt  walked  along,  he  was  aware  of  her  as  some- 
thing decisive.  He  began  in  a  wayward  manner  to  think 
of  her,  to  try  to  account  for  this  unfailing  sensation,  and 
to  create  more  successfully  than  at  first  he  had  been  able  to 
do  a  credible  mental  picture  of  her.  He  knew  that  she 
dressed  very  simply :  in  contrast  with  Cissie  she  seemed 
extraordinarily  perfect,  dressed,  as  it  were,  with  entire 
suitability.  Often  his  thoughts  went  away  into  other 
things  while  that  business  was  under  survey,  but  it  re- 
mained an  insoluble  problem  in  his  mind.    There  was  just 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  191 

"something"  about  her.  His  thoughts  of  her  were  child- 
like, and  innocent ;  she  was  still  very  distant  from  him,  but 
unexpectedly  real. 

That  was  how  he  came  to  make  a  curious  blunder,  and 
a  disquieting  discovery.  It  happened  that  one  evening  Cis- 
sie  was  mending  a  blouse,  the  buttonholes  of  which  did  not 
seem  any  longer  to  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they  were 
designed.  It  was  a  warm  blouse,  of  a  dark  greyish  green ; 
but  in  it  was  a  very  unsatisfying  pattern  of  light  grey,  that 
climbed  every  two  or  three  inches  by  a  laboured  route  from 
the  waist  to  the  neck.  The  pattern  was  very  plain  (as  one 
says  of  unbecomingly  but  expensively  dressed  members  of 
noble  families,  whose  portraits  shower  from  the  pages  of 
illustrated  papers)  ;  but  it  was  very  blurred,  so  that  the  eye 
was  both  affronted  and  puzzled  by  it.  The  curls  and 
mountings  were  as  irrational  as  the  flitting  shapes  that 
strained  eyes  see  after  a  prolonged  bright  glare;  but  they 
were  always  there,  so  that  they  had  the  morbid  fascination 
of  jiggling  raindrops  upon  the  window  of  a  railway  car- 
riage. Velancourt  tracked  them  up  and  down  in  an  increas- 
ing stupor.  He  longed  to  tear  his  eyes  away,  and  to  forget 
them ;  but  he  always  found  himself  sliding  back  into  a  pro- 
longed and  unwilling  regard.  His  observation  grew  at 
length  so  remarkable  that  Cissie,  having  first  glanced  down 
herself  for  some  explanation  of  it,  made  feeble  protest. 

"What  you  staring  at?"  she  demanded.  "Look  at  me 
like  that!"  She  shivered.  Although  she  wanted  him  to 
look  at  her,  she  could  see  that  his  expression  was  the  one 
she  feared,  an  absorbed  emptiness  that  made  her  fear  for 
his  sanity. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  feel  such  an  extraordinary 
dislike  for  that  thing." 

Cissie's  face  fell.    It  was  a  great  shock  to  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it  ?"  she  cried,  sharply,  knowing 
somehow  that  it  was  the  wrong  tone. 

"Don't  you  see :   it's  nothing.    It  doesn't  mean  anything. 


i92  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

It's  not  really  there  at  all — it  hasn't  got  any  outline,  or  any 
form.    It  makes  me  shudder;  it's  as  sickly  as  putty." 

"Adrian!"  A  dreadful  fear  of  his  sanity  shook  her. 
"Lost  your  wits,  you  have.  Oh,  do  move,  and  don't  look 
at  it.  .  .  .    Gives  me  the  shivers  when  you  talk  like  that." 

"I'm  quite  sane.    Don't  you  hate  it  yourself?" 

"I  like  it.  It's  nice.  Like  putty,  indeed !"  She  was  con- 
scious of  watering  eyes  and  a  sense  of  hopeless  chagrin. 
She  had  chosen  the  blouse  as  very  pretty;  it  was  a  sort  of 
flannelette,  and  very  warm  and  comfortable;  and  if  Adrian 
didn't  like  her  clothes — what  zvas  she  to  do?  Velancourt 
turned  his  eyes  away,  and  she  went  on  sewing  the  button- 
holes, and  thinking  over  his  speech.  A  tear  wandered  out 
of  one  eye,  and  ran  down  her  nose,  splashing  suddenly  on 
the  blouse.  It  broke  her  nerve,  so  that  she  suddenly  put 
the  work  on  the  table,  and  her  arms  on  it,  and  her  head  in 
her  arms. 

"Cissie !"  Velancourt  cried,  becoming  aware  of  this  so 
quiet  action  through  the  sense  of  unhappy  silence  that  fell 
upon  the  room,  like  a  hush  of  dread.  He  left  his  chair,  and 
came  to  her  side,  holding  her,  but  not  so  passionately  as  to 
make  her  resistance  unavailing.  He  waited ;  and  she  was 
exasperated  afresh  by  his  inability  to  override  her  mood  of 
grizzling  misery. 

"Everything  I  do's  wrong,"  she  persisted,  and  her  voice 
was  still  muffled  by  the  offending  blouse.  "Everything!" 
She  pushed  him  away,  and  stood  up,  looking  across  the 
room  with  her  head  averted.  "Oh  what  shall  I  do !  What 
shall  I  do !" 

Velancourt  for  once  lost  his  temper  passionately. 

"Whatever  you  do,"  he  said  fiercely;  "don't  be  his- 
trionic !" 

"Everything  I  do's  wrong!"  she  wailed.  "I  can't  do 
anything  right." 

They  did  not  look  at  each  other;  they  stood  as  though 
they  could  never  again  bear  to  look  at  each  other — as 
though  there  could  never  be  enemies  more  bitter.     There 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  193 

was  a  moment's  perceptible  silence,  until  upon  a  sudden 
impulse  of  reaction  Velancourt's  anger  faded  to  remorse 
and  pity.  He  looked  down  at  the  floor  with  an  air  of  puz- 
zled shame,  as  a  sleep-walker  might  have  looked. 

"Cissie,  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry.  I  don't  know  why  you're 
angry.  I  try  to  like  what  you  like — really  I  do.  It  just 
happens  that — perhaps  it's  my  love,  or  that  I'm  stupid — 
but  I  was  worried  by  that  thing.  .  .  .  You  know  how 
you're  worried  by  a  fly's  buzzing,  or  a  feeling  of  deafness. 
Won't  you  forgive  me?" 

"No."  She  was  relenting,  slowly  and  with  a  gradually 
softening  mood.     "You  were  beastly." 

"You  know  I  like  simple  colours.  It's  only  a  taste,  I 
know.  I  see  Miss  Gretton  sometimes,  and  she  always  seems 
to  wear  some  plain  brown  or ." 

Cissie  made  a  sound  that  was  almost  a  scream.  She 
turned  upon  him  with  her  cheeks  a  deep  horrible  red,  and 
her  eyes  glittering. 

"Miss  Gretton !"  she  gasped,  in  a  smothered  voice.  "You 
dare  talk  ...  Of  course  I'm  not  as  good  as  she  is.  I'm 
only  .  .  ."  She  was  almost  incoherent  with  a  terrible  fury. 
"I'm  only  your  wife.  You  don't  seem  to  think  she  has  her 
clothes  tailor-made.  You  don't  think  of  that.  I'm  only 
your  wife.  I  can  stay  at  home  here,  drudging  ....  yes, 
drudging  for  you ;  while  you  see  Miss  Gretton  in  her  tailor- 
made  dresses !  As  if  I  didn't  know !  I've  seen  how  you 
looked  at  her !     Miss  Gretton,  indeed  !" 

Velancourt  came  nearer.  He  was  white,  but  he  was  not 
at  all  angry,  only  ashamed. 

"I  expect  I  was  an  idiot  to  mention  anybody  else,"  he 
said.  "But  you  oughtn't  to  be  so  ridiculous,  Cissie.  I 
know  you're  brave,  and  it  makes  me  feel  horrible  to  think 
of  your  having  to  mend  up  old  things  when  I  ought  to  be 
able  to  get  you  new  ones.    Dear  .  .  ." 

Cissie's  breath  was  still  short  and  painful,  and  her  cheeks 
were  as  flushed;  but  she  was  no  longer  mad  with  anger. 
As  he  came  nearer  she  turned  and  held  out  her  hands,  and 


194  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

cried  with  her  face  against  his.  The  jealous  fury  was  gone 
in  a  moment ;  and  she  was  afraid,  like  a  child  that  has  for 
one  instant  defied  its  mother.  A  little  petting,  and  she  drew 
away  from  him.  In  a  moment  she  took  up  the  blouse — 
Velancourt  almost  expected  her  to  throw  it  on  the  fire,  or 
hide  it — and  began  mechanically  to  go  on  with  the  button- 
holes. He  could  hear  her  soft  sobbing  breath  still  catch- 
ing, and  her  face  looked  pinched  and  miserable.  She  looked 
so  helpless,  so  pretty  in  spite  of  tears,  that  his  heart  went 
out  to  her  in  humblest  compassion.  He  put  an  arm  round 
her  shoulders. 

"And  one  day  I'll  be  able  to  get  you  all  the  fine  clothes 
you  want,"  he  said. 

"When  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  dry  voice. 

Velancourt  flushed  a  little,  and  sat  down  again. 

"It  wouldn't  take  much,"  he  said,  soberly;  and  fell  to 
musing. 

Thereafter,  they  avoided  meeting  each  other's  eyes,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  evening  Cissie's  good-night  kiss  was  lin- 
gering and  contrite. 

"I'm  a  toad,"  she  whispered.  "A  little  devil,  I  am.  .  .  . 
I'm  so  sick  of  myself." 

"My  sweet,"  said  Velancourt,  holding  her. 

But  she  said  a  thing  that  had  stayed  in  his  mind.  She 
had  said  "I've  seen  how  you  looked  at  her."  How  horrible 
that  she  should  be  able  even  to  think  of  that.  She  had  been 
bitter  with  anger ;  but  even  so  the  idea  was  as  ugly  as  sus- 
picion. It  was  so  inexpressibly  untrue.  It  was  so  unbe- 
lievable. 

Both  Cissie  and  Velancourt  remembered  those  words, 
and  strove  to  forget  them,  to  wish  them  unsaid.  Neither 
ever  forgot  them:  they  were  bitten  deep.  But  they  were 
untrue,  until  then. 


CHAPTER   XX 
THE   AMBERLEYS    RECEIVE 


AMBERLEY  and  his  sister  Susan  were  drawn  up  be- 
fore the  fire.  Their  mother  was  in  her  room,  away 
from  the  sound  of  their  voices,  reading  a  book  by  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood,  who  was  her  favourite  author.  Susan  was 
looking  into  the  fire,  but  she  was  leaning  pleasantly  back 
in  her  chair,  with  a  faint  smile  of  happiness  upon  her  face. 
She  had  done  her  hair  in  a  new  way,  rather  tightly,  with  a 
little  curled  plait  on  the  top  of  her  head,  which  revealed 
the  very  charming  carriage  of  her  head,  and  made  her  look 
even  younger  than  usual.  Susan  was  very  fair  and  very 
slight,  and  she  had  a  small  sedate  way  of  emphasising  her 
prettiness  that  made  Amberley  as  much  aware  of  it  as  he 
would  have  been  if  she  had  not  been  his  sister.  Amberley 
lay  in  another  chair,  very  gently  sending  tiny  puffs  of  smoke 
from  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  In  contrast  with  Susan  he 
looked  almost  swarthy,  and  a  tremendous  length — about 
seven  feet.  But  when  Susan's  eyes  were  not  fixed  sol- 
emnly upon  the  red  fire,  they  turned  to  him  with  a  soft 
warmth  of  affection  that  she  never  tried  to  disguise.  The 
room,  darkly  papered,  and  sometimes  shining  with  the  dull 
gleam  of  pewter  or  with  the  light's  reflection  upon  a  bowl 
of  autumn  flowers,  was  restful  in  a  shadowy  stillness  of 
undisturbed  peace.  Neither  Susan  nor  Joseph  had  spoken 
for  a  long  time;  they  both  appreciated  the  quietness  and 
the  restful  room,  because  Mrs.  Amberley  was  not  there  to 

195 


196  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

breathe  rather  heavily,  and  even  to  whisper  words  from  the 
book  she  was  reading,  as  she  sometimes  permitted  herself 
to  do  if  the  room  were  silent.  When  she  whispered,  Susan 
thought  of  her  as  a  Sybil;  when  she  breathed  aloud  Am- 
berley  thought  of  her  as  rather  an  amiable  old  nuisance. 
So  they  were  glad  that  Mrs.  Henry  Wood  should  be  their 
personal  benefactor.  Susan  had  once  thought  that  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood  might  be  rather  a  good  novelist,  owing  to  the 
resemblance  between  her  name  and  that  of  Susan's  favour- 
ite conductor;  until  Joseph,  to  whom  in  her  questioning 
perplexity  she  appealed,  was  able  to  explain  that  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood  was  a  deceased  writer  who  was  a  great  com- 
fort to  Mrs.  Amberley.  After  that,  Susan  had  no  further 
interest  in  Mrs.  Wood,  and  classed  her  with  the  authors  of 
The  Lamplighter  and  The  Wide  Wide  World,  with  which 
books  Mrs.  Amberley 's  earlier  years  had  been  solaced. 

Both  of  them  knew  quite  well  that  Susan  ought  to  have 
gone  to  a  Suffrage  Meeting  in  the  neighbourhood ;  but  she 
was  grown  rather  indifferent  to  the  political  wrongs  of  her 
sex,  and,  besides,  had  disagreed  with  a  lady  who  had  ven- 
tured to  say  that  Amberley  was  no  better  than  he  should  be. 
Susan's  crammed  knowledge  of  male  vices  was  so  very  in- 
nocent, and  her  loyalty  to  Joseph  (and  indeed  her  knowl- 
edge of  his  complete  decorum)  was  so  great,  that  she  had 
disagreed  vehemently  with  Joseph's  detractor.  It  was  one 
thing  to  learn  that  men  were  ridden  with  vile  diseases ;  it 
was  quite  another  to  be  brought  up  against  any  personal 
contact  with  things  so  unbelievable.  Joseph  had  told  her 
that  the  White  Slave  Traffic  fuss  was  without  foundation ; 
and  had  shown  her  a  masterly  article  by  Mrs.  Billington- 
Greig  (who  was  one  of  the  few  prominent  Suffrage  work- 
ers to  receive  his  respect),  which  amply  supported  his  sug- 
gestion. Therefore,  Susan  had  rather  cooled  off,  and  while 
she  was  strongly  convinced  in  theory  she  had  not  quite  the 
energy  to  continue  actively  practising  the  belief  she  held. 
She  sank  supine  upon  the  foundations  of  home.  Home 
was  good.     That  was  why  she  was  not  at  the  local  Suf- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  197 

frage  meeting:  the  Suffrage  lady  had  been  too  eager,  and 
had  trodden  upon  her  own  foot.  There  was  perhaps  just 
one  other  small  reason  for  Susan's  backsliding,  which  was 
that  she  was  no  longer  so  personally  discontented  as  she 
had  been.  She  looked  round  upon  mankind  with  a  vague 
pleased  benignity  that  made  Amberley  squirm  with  secret 
affectionate  laughter.  Amberley  felt  it  was  almost  objec- 
tionable that  he  should  so  easily  be  able  to  understand  her 
sensations  better  than  she  understood  them  herself. 

"It  wasn't  to-night  Ernest  Gretton  said  he  would  come, 
was  it?"  he  asked. 

Susan  was  intent  upon  the  fire. 

"Was  it?"  she  asked,  doubtfully.  "I  almost  think  it  was 
to-morrow." 

He  grunted,  and  went  on  with  his  pipe,  with  his  eyes 
half  closed,  basking,  as  it  were,  in  his  own  cool  apprecia- 
tion of  the  spectacle  of  life.  He  very  greatly  enjoyed  the 
spectacle  of  life,  which  had  an  engrossing  interest  and  in- 
finite variety.  He  disliked  excitement  very  much;  and  he 
seemed  to  see  before  him  only  a  series  of  things  to  be  done 
and  to  be  seen,  to  be  felt  and  to  be  admired — nothing,  ap- 
parently, in  the  active  sense,  to  be  suffered. 

"When  I  was  there  on  Sunday,"  Susan  went  on,  after  a 
long  pause,  "Ernest  said  we  might  go  to  see  that  new  play 
at  the  Royalty;  Barbara  said  she'd  go.  Ernest  said  did  I 
think  you  wanted  to  see  it." 

"And  what  did  Barbara  say  to  that?"  asked  Amberley, 
suavely. 

"She  said  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  go  this  week  or  next, 
and  that  she'd  thought  of  going  with  a  girl  they  know, 
called  Toddles,  or  Wodgett,  or  something." 

"She's  a  determined  minx." 

"Isn't  she!  But  what  did  you  mean,  Joe?"  Susan's  eye 
was  upon  him.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  follow  on  about  the 
theatre.  She  really  seemed  to  have  made  some  arrange- 
ment.   I  don't  see  any  reason  why  she  should  invent  a  rea- 


198  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

son  of  that  sort.  It  isn't  as  though  you  were  a  bore,  or  a 
stick,  or  anything  else  that's  tiresome." 

"Well,  of  course,  you're  prejudiced  in  my  favour,"  Am- 
berley  said.  "But  we  won't  talk  any  more  about  that,  be- 
cause I've  just  actively  remembered  that  you  ought  to  have 
gone  to  a  Suffrage  meeting  to-night." 

"But,  Joe,  why  shouldn't  Barbara  like  you?  She  never 
comes  up,  and  never  speaks  about  you." 

"Perhaps  it's  a  long  journey  and  she  hasn't  anything  to 
say,"  teased  Amberley.  "But  let  us  discuss  the  Suffrage 
together,  Susie.    That  will  improve  our  minds." 

"No.    Well,  I've  just  begun  to  think.    Barbara." 

"It's  an  ugly  name,  isn't  it?  We  settled  Barbara  long 
ago,  didn't  we  ?  Don't  you  remember  the  first  time  you  ever 
went  to  the  Grettons'  I  explained  the  difference  between 
Mrs.  Gretton  and  Barbara?" 

"Well,  that  was  such  rubbish  .  .  ."  she  said,  doubtfully. 

"But  what  can  you  expect  from  modern  women  ?  Women 
nowadays  are  so  sure  of  their  own  merit  that  you  can't 
help  supposing  the  merit  itself  has  fallen  into  desuetude. 
Why,  it's  historically  notorious  that  the  expository  age  only 
arises  when  a  creative  age  has  just  died.  Just  think  to 
yourself  what  evidence  that  is!  Women  everywhere  ex- 
plaining women — and  contradicting  each  other,  as  women 
will." 

"And  men !"  cried  Susan,  strenuously,  completely  di- 
verted from  her  too-persistent  inquiries.  "Oh,  but  Joe, 
how  evident  it  was  that  you  were  working  off  that  about 
the  creative  age!"  She  said  it  with  gravest  reproach,  but 
with  her  mouth  smiling. 

"I've  got  more  .  .  .  quite  ready." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  You're  like  the  member  for  Bun- 
combe who  talked  for  hours  and  hours.  It's  all  bunkum  as 
you  know  quite  well." 

"Shall  I  put  my  views  in  a  sentence  ?" 

"No !"  she  cried  aloud.  "You'd  be  like  the  man  who  de- 
scribed the  locusts  taking  the  grains  of  wheat." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  199 

"Really,"  protested  Amberley;  "your  allusiveness  defeats 
its  own  object.  I  had  a  faint  idea  that  the  member  for 
Buncombe  excused  the  few  stragglers  from  listening  be- 
cause he  was  only  'talking  for  Buncombe,'  but  I  don't  grasp 
the  other  one  about  the  locusts." 

"Surely  you've  heard  of  the  king  who  wanted  a  long 
story,  and  the  stories  always  ended  too  soon ;  and  at  last  a 
man  told  about  locusts,  and  said  'And  then  another  locust 
came  and  took  another  grain ;  and  then  another.  .  .  .'  It's 
as  old  as  the  fables." 

"But  my  sentence  wouldn't  be  like  that." 

"Well?" 

"The  Feminist  Movement,  being  an  assertion  of  claims 
and  an  allegation  of  wrongs,  lacks  humility,  and  is  there- 
fore spiritually  damnable.  That's  my  sentence.  You  can't 
be  happy  unless  you're  humble  before  God,  or  Beauty,  or 
Nature.  These  women  are  egoists;  their  martyrdoms  are 
egoisms ;  their  plaudits  vanities.    God  help  them." 

"It's  wonderful  how  you  can  go  through  life " 

"Filled  with  eternal  wisdom " 

"With  your  eyes  shut.    Gracious,  there's  a  knock !" 

"Now,"  said  Amberley.  "Is  this  Gretton  or  Velancourt?" 
He  watched  Susan's  cheeks.  "Gretton,  for  a  pound !"  He 
often  betted  with  himself,  because  by  doing  that  you  were 
always  sure  to  win  money. 

But  he  was  wrong.  He  listened  with  growing  bewilder- 
ment to  the  voices  in  the  passage.  He  could  hear  Susan 
and  another.  Presently  they  both  appeared.  The  visitor 
was  Barbara  Gretton! 

II 

"Isn't  that  extraordinary !"  laughed  Susan.  Barbara  was 
flushed  and  radiant,  and  shook  hands  in  the  most  friendly 
way,  as  though  they  had  never  quarrelled.  Amberley  was 
even  a  little  mystified,  though  he  thought  she  looked  splen- 


200  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

did  in  a  great  overcoat,  which  she  slipped  off  at  Susan's 
entreaty. 

"Susan  had  just  been  waking  up,"  he  explained.  "I  was 
waking  her  up  with  a  few  facts." 

"You  know  what  his  'facts'  are,  Barbara." 

"Rather  awful,  I  should  think,"  Barbara  said,  with  easy 
disdain. 

"He's  as  contrary  and  argumentative  as  the  Red  Queen." 

"Or  my  brother  Harry." 

"We  certainly  are  equally  candid,"  Amberley  interposed, 
thinking  it  was  now  time  to  speak  in  his  own  defence. 

"Does  that  mean  'crude'?"  asked  Susan,  impertinently. 
"Joe's  a  master  of  euphemism." 

"I  must  admit  they're  very  loyal  to  each  other,"  said 
Barbara.    "Harry  becomes  positively  eloquent." 

"Harry  never  speaks  to  me :  he  always  seems  too  shy. 
Am  I  so  alarming?  I  mean,  to  a  boy."  Susan  became 
rather  demure  in  asking  such  a  question;  but  she  received 
no  answer. 

"Harry  is  a  philosopher,"  Amberley  said.  "He  has 
pierced  the  weaknesses  of  Modern  Women." 

"Ah!  Now  that  Barbara's  here,  perhaps  you'll  be  less 
ready  to  condemn  the  modern  woman." 

"Oh,  please,  no !"  cried  Barbara.  "I  want  to  talk  quietly. 
I'm  shattered  by  a  devastating  row  at  the  office.  My  Miss 
Devizes  became  quite  spiteful  this  evening.  I  really  had 
to  quell  her ;  and  it  took  all  my  energy." 

She  was  speaking  nervously,  with  a  nervous  exaggera- 
tion, in  spite  of  her  apparent  ease.  Amberley  was  delighted 
to  see  her  sitting  there,  and  bending  forward  to  talk  to 
Susan.  She  was  in  a  very  plain  brown  tweed  costume,  with 
a  small  orange  bow  at  the  neck ;  and  her  oval  face,  showing 
in  the  fireglow,  looked  flushed  and  eager.  Instinctively 
Amberley  drew  his  head  a  little  back,  so  that  he  could  ad- 
mire her  the  better — not  furtively,  because  he  was  never 
furtive,  but  with  a  reserve  that  was  as  natural  as  Susan's 
ingenuous  outspokenness.    He  was  grateful  to  Barbara  for 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  201 

being  so  frank  and  cordial,  and  he  thought  her  more  won- 
derful than  ever:  it  was  delight  to  him  to  see  her  sitting  in 
his  old  chair,  so  naturally;  and  as  though  she  had  been  a 
neighbour. 

"Isn't  it  fortunate  that  mother's  gone  to  bed !"  said  Susan. 

"She's  not  ill,  I  hope?" 

"She  hasn't  really  gone  to  bed — as  a  matter  of  fact,"  Am- 
berley  explained,  to  Susan's  groan.  "She  is  in  her  room, 
secreted,  with  a  novel  in  which  the  mortality  is  higher  than 
in  most  novels.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Halliburton  s  Troubles.  Our 
mother  finds  relief  from  her  own  in  those  of  other  people. 
She  is  one  of  those  who  desire  to  be  taken  away  from  the 
sordid  realities  of  life  when  they  read  novels.  So  she 
reads  something  ten  times  as  horrible." 

"And  fifty  times  as  silly,"  added  Susan. 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure  you  wouldn't  find  my  mother  doing 
exactly  the  same  thing,"  Barbara  said,  with  a  sudden  glance 
at  Amberley,  and  a  defiance  in  her  whole  attitude. 

"You'd  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Thomas  Hardy  was 
your  mother's  favourite  novelist?"  he  asked.  Barbara 
laughed  a  little  at  the  idea.  She  remembered  with  an  odd 
feeling  how  she  had  discussed  the  Drama  with  Amberley. 

"Yes :  I  suppose  I  should,"  she  admitted. 

"Your  mother,  having  read  all  Hardy's  novels,  tells  me 
that  several  are  very  silly  books.  She  singles  out  A  Pair  of 
Blue  Eyes,  Two  on  a  Tozver,  and  The  Hand  of  Ethelberta 
as  silly  ones.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  regards  The  Wood- 
landers,  The  Return  of  the  Native,  and  Under  the  Green- 
zvood  Tree  as  the  finest  novels  in  the  English  language." 

He  was  very  firm  in  this  speech,  because  he  saw  disbe- 
lief, still  in  Barbara's  eyes  at  the  beginning,  gradually  give 
way  to  a  semblance  of  awe. 

"Really?  She  never  told  me.  .  .  .  One  doesn't  see  her 
reading  them." 

"Nietzsche  your  mother  regards  as  sound  except  on 
democracy  and  woman,"  said  Amberley.  "Schopenhauer 
she  regards  as  an  admirable  writer  for  those  not  likely  to 


202  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

be  influenced  by  him.  Her  favourite  artist  is  Sir  John  Mil- 
lais " 

"Good  for  mother!"  Barbara  cried,  laughing.  "She's  real 
in  pictures,  anyway." 

"Wagner  she  can't  stand." 

"Bravo  !"  said  Susan.    "Oh,  she's  splendid,  isn't  she !" 

"I    regret   to    say    that    she   prefers    Mendelssohn " 

There  were  groans.  "But  even  there  she  shows  discern- 
ment. She  condemns  his  more  pretentious  works.  She 
has  the  good  taste  to  like  Dickens ;  but  she  says  Thackeray 
is  like  an  artificial  gauze  sea  in  a  pantomime,  with  lots  of 
sugar.  .  .  ." 

"I  must  say  that  mother's  become  very  epigrammatic — 
or  something — very  suddenly,"  Barbara  said.  "But  how 
ever  have  you  been  able  to  get  at  the  information?" 

"He  does,"  Susan  said.  "It's  frightful;  but  he  always 
does." 

"I'm  afraid  I  asked,"  explained  Amberley.  "I  only  men- 
tion these  things — not  that  I  think  Miss  Gretton  is  inter- 
ested;  but  because  what  I'm  always  trying  to  make  Susan 
see  is  that  the  pre-modern  woman's  finest  qualities  are  tre- 
mendously developed,  without  any  ostentation.  If  a  mod- 
ern girl  has  tracked  the  words  of  Nietzsche  from  one  cover 
to  the  other  she  boasts  of  it,  even  if  she  doesn't  understand 
them.  She  hasn't  any  judgment  as  a  stand-by.  That's  why 
all  her  knowledge  is  out  of  date  before  ever  she's  grasped 
it." 

"Don't  you  see,  you  silly,  that  the  change  is  in  the  wom- 
an's attitude  to  men  ?"  demanded  Susan.  "Barbara,  I  know 
he's  got  these  awful  things  up  his  sleeve." 

"I'll  just  say  this  one  thing,"  Amberley  said ;  "and  I  will 
then  cease  from  troubling  you  with  my  sagacities.  The  old 
attitude  of  women  to  men  was  one  of  amused,  understand- 
ing tolerance.  That  still  obtains  delightfully  among  old- 
fashioned  people — such  as  your  mother,  Miss  Gretton.  But 
the  modern  woman  is  so  vain  that  she's  afraid  she'll  be 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  203 

overlooked.  Women  have  always  been  vain ;  but  now 
they're  half-educated,  and  that  makes  them  vociferous." 

He  leaned  back  laughing  at  Barbara.  There  came  an- 
other knock  at  the  door  of  the  flat. 

"Who  on  earth  can  it  be?" 

"Ernest.    Might  it  be?"  Susan  asked  Barbara. 

"Shouldn't  think  .  .  ." 

"Hullo,  Velancourt!"  said  Amberley  at  the  front  door. 
Come  along  in." 

Ill 

Velancourt's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  when  he  saw 
Barbara  Gretton.  The  sight  of  her  was  so  unexpected,  and 
she  looked  so  perfect  as  she  sat  in  Joseph  Amberley's  chair, 
shading  her  face  from  the  fire  with  one  hand,  that  he 
stopped  involuntarily  upon  the  threshold.  Amberley,  com- 
ing into  the  room  close  behind  him,  heard  Velancourt's 
breath  caught,  and  caught  sideways  the  sudden  dilation  of 
his  eyes.  He  gave  no  sign ;  because  he  was  accustomed  to 
conceal  his  feelings.  But  his  own  eyes  became  hard,  and 
his  mouth  closed  sharply.  Susan  stood  up,  and  came  for- 
ward in  her  impetuous  way. 

"It's  simply  splendid  that  mother's  got  Mrs.  Halliburton's 
Troubles!"  she  cried.  "I'll  never  say  another  bad  word 
against  Mrs.  Henry  Wood.    She's  a  genius !" 

Velancourt,  in  a  blur,  saw  her,  and  shook  hands,  and 
moved  to  greet  Barbara ;  while  Amberley  sat  down  near  the 
door. 

"I  don't  expect  Velancourt  ever  heard  of  the  book,"  he 
said,  in  an  odd  voice. 

"It  must  be  wonderful.  It's  a  sedative.  It's  one  of  those 
splendid  engrossing  books — that  people  don't  write  nowa- 
days." 

"Yes,  I  wonder  why  that  is?"  cried  Barbara,  rather  con- 
fused by  Velancourt's  confusion. 

"Joe  knows,  I  expect,"  Susan  said,  impudently. 


204  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"I  meant,  the  real  reason !"    Barbara  was  malicious. 

"Surely,"  said  Velancourt,  speaking  faintly  from  a  great 
distance,  "it's  because  there  are  no  good  books." 

''Joe's  very  conservative  about  women ;  but  progressive 
about  everything  else !" 

Amberley  sat  like  a  stone. 

"That  comes  of  having  an  opinion  on  everything,"  said 
Barbara. 

Amberley  smiled  at  last,  and  moved  in  his  chair,  as 
though  he  had  just  begun  to  hear  what  they  were  saying. 

"The  reason  the  books  don't  amuse  is  that  there's  less 
variety  of  invention  and  more  sincere  understanding,"  he 
said.  "They're  less  obvious  than  they  used  to  be.  And  the 
reason  I  am  conservative  in  the  other  respect  is  that  the 
Feminist  movement  is  restricted  to  dissatisfied  women  with 
too  little  to  occupy  their  minds.  Happy,  useful  women  with 
plenty  to  do — some  nine-tenths  of  the  feminine  population 
— don't  think  that  sex  is  greater  than  progress  and  human- 
ity." 

"He  doesn't  know  anything  about  us,"  Susan  said,  laugh- 
ing. She  couldn't  understand  why  Joe  had  become  so  dull. 
"He's  just  talking  words ;  and  he  really  knows  it.  I 
shouldn't  like  you  to  judge  his  worth  by  his  opinions.  He's 
a  good  soul." 

"He  talks  too  much,"  objected  Barbara. 

"I've  brought  back  Keats's  Letters,"  Velancourt  said  to 
Amberley,  meeting  his  eyes  with  an  appealing  glance.  Am- 
berley looked  cruelly  at  him,  and  would  not  suggest  that 
they  should  go  out  of  the  room  together.  "I  can't  stay," 
Velancourt  went  on.  "I  only  .  .  .  only  came  to  bring 
them." 

"But  you'll  stay  a  little  while — to  supper?"  Susan  cried. 

"I  must  go  back  now.  It's  rather  a  long  way.  I've  left 
Cissie  alone." 

"Is  she  quite  well?" 

Velancourt's  face  was  white.  He  put  out  his  hand 
abruptly,  and  said  good-bye  to  Susan;  then  he  went  to 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  205 

Barbara,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her.  The  touch  of  her 
hand,  warm  and  strong,  was  like  a  shock  to  him.  Some- 
how there  was  suspense  in  the  air  until  the  front  door  was 
closed,  and  Amberley  came  back  into  the  room,  to  where 
the  girls  were  still  sitting  quietly. 

"Joe  ...    It  was  beastly  not  to  make  him  stay." 

Amberley  looked  quite  old.  Barbara  felt  a  curious  pity 
for  him.  She  moved  the  chair  back  a  little  so  that  he  might 
sit  between  Susan  and  herself,  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"He  wanted  to  go,"  Amberley  said.  "It  was  no  good 
pressing  him  to-night." 

He  spoke  so  dully  that  Susan's  attention  was  arrested. 
She  pounced  upon  him. 

"What's  the  matter  ?  You  look  like  a  man  who's  seen  a 
ghost." 

Amberley,  sitting  down  again  near  the  door,  stretched 
his  legs  comfortably  before  him. 

"I  was  thinking  about  Mrs.  Halliburton's  Troubles,"  he 
said.  "And  about  the  spacious  days  of  the  Victorian  novel. 
I  was  also  thinking  of  the  Feminist  question.  You  know, 
of  course,  that  Susan's  given  up  the  pretence  of  being  a 
Suffragist?"     He  spoke  across  the  room  to  Barbara. 

He  was  remembering  the  expression  in  Velancourt's 
eyes ;  and  wondering  what  was  going  to  happen. 


CHAPTER   XXI 
A  WALK  AT   NIGHT 


VELANCOURT  walked  to  the  end  of  the  Amberleys' 
road  very  quickly ;  and  then  he  was  able  to  get  on  to 
Highgate  Hill,  up  which,  in  spite  of  the  late  hour,  he  could 
see  the  dome  of  St.  Joseph's  Retreat  standing  out  black 
against  a  sky  that  was  still  a  frosty  blue.  It  was  a  clear 
night,  and  stars  and  moon  were  brilliant.  He  walked  in  a 
dazed  state,  recognising  the  familiar  things  around  him, 
but  thinking  nothing  about  them,  because  he  could  think 
only  of  his  own  stupidity.  He  imagined  Barbara  and  Susan 
and  Amberley  still  sitting  in  the  room  he  had  left,  mysti- 
fied and  hilarious  over  his  exit.  He  could  not  go  back,  yet 
that  impulse  came  to  him,  among  others,  for  the  purpose  of 
restoring  a  state  of  peace  which  he  seemed  wilfully  to  have 
destroyed  by  so  unreasoning  a  flight. 

He  was  puzzled  to  know  why  Cissie's  words  about  Bar- 
bara should  have  had  the  power  to  make  him  self-conscious 
when  Barbara  was  there  before  his  eyes ;  he  was  puzzled  to 
account  for  the  strangling  sensation  of  which  he  was  still 
aware.  His  first  thought  was  a  bitter  one,  the  intolerant 
wish  that  Cissie  knew  how  to  hold  her  tongue.  She  did 
not  know;  she  almost  seemed  to  say  the  unnecessary  thing 
with  a  wrong-headed  sense  of  triumph — as  though  she  had 
approached  the  edge  of  a  whirlpool  too  near,  and  been 
sucked  down  by  the  turmoil  of  the  waters.  A  desire  to  say 
something  was  the  lure  that  dragged  her  into  all  their  dis- 

206 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  207 

agreements,  and  all  those  indiscreet  assertivenesses  that  so 
hurt  him.  It  was  her  vanity  that  estranged  them.  If  she 
had  been  wiser,  his  delight  in  service  would  have  filled  his 
life  with  happiness.  Yet  he  could  not  suppose  that  he  did 
not  love  her :  he  could  not  suppose  that  his  love,  at  this 
time,  was  a  combination  of  excitement  and  habit :  to  admit 
that  might  have  been  possible  to  Amberley,  but  to  Velan- 
court  it  would  have  been  a  blasphemy.  He  could  only  see 
as  far  as  Cissie's  culpability,  which  he  tried  all  the  time  to 
minimise :  irritation  with  her,  for  raising  in  him  such  emo- 
tional discomfort,  was  for  the  moment  his  furthest  thought. 

Then  he  tried  to  put  everything  out  of  his  mind,  to  say 
resolutely:  I  will  not  think  of  these  things.  That  availed 
him  nothing;  the  mind  is  as  inquisitive  and  as  insistently- 
returning  as  a  puppy  warded  off  unwholesome  food.  Vel- 
ancourt  could  not  help  coming  back  again  and  again  to  his 
own  chagrin,  always  with  the  impression  that  Cissie's  inju- 
dicious speech  had  made  the  whole  difficulty.  He  admired 
Barbara  Gretton  so  much  that  he  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  her  as  contaminated  by  a  chance  remark,  thrown  at  him 
in  a  fit  of  almost  hysterical  feeling;  yet  at  the  unexpected 
sight  of  her  the  sudden  turmoil  of  sensation  had  been  an 
agony  and  a  shame  to  him.  He  clenched  and  unclenched  his 
fists  as  he  walked — up  Highgate  Hill  and  down  Hampstead 
Lane,  which  would  take  him  across  the  top  of  the  Heath. 
What  would  she  think  of  him?  What  would  the  Amber- 
leys  think? 

A  distrust  of  Amberley  shook  him.  Was  Amberley  the 
man  to  be  considerate?  Was  he  not  rather  the  man  to 
make  amusement  out  of  any  failure,  any  discomfiture  or  in- 
explicable mood  ?  He  would  never  be  able  to  understand  a 
thing  that  would  not  bear  putting  into  words.  Amberley 
would  be  helpless,  innocuous,  if  it  were  not  for  words. 
Amberley  thought  things;  he  didn't  feel  them.  That  was 
Amberley's  trouble.  Amberley,  no  doubt,  was  even  now 
making  him  ridiculous  to  Barbara  Gretton — perhaps  imi- 
tating him — riddling  him  with  the  sharp  shot  of  sly  misin- 


2o8  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

terpretation.  Oh,  Amberley  was  disloyal  to  the  core;  he 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  reduce  everything  to  a  com- 
mon pulp  of  abject  absurdity.  Amberley  had  no  reverence. 
He  couldn't  really  understand.  His  cleverness  gave  him  a 
superficial  air  of  understanding;  he  could  ape  sincerity  and 
sympathy,  but  in  spite  of  his  perceptions  he  couldn't  feel 
them.  Amberley  was  one  of  these  arid  people  who  bring 
their  brains  to  bear  upon  a  thing  and  make  it  insignificant, 
who  spoil  emotion  by  fingering  it  and  weighing  it  and  criti- 
cising it  into  insignificance. 

Oh  God!  Velancourt  burst  out,  in  a  fever.  To  think 
that  he  had  laid  himself  open  to  the  sneers  of  a  man  like 
Amberley !  He  had  confided  in  him — to  what  extent  really 
had  he  confided  ?  Not,  certainly,  as  to  Cissie :  no  word  of 
Cissie  had  passed  him,  not  even  that  disloyal  hinting  which 
some  people  indulged,  which  saved  their  mouths  from  spe- 
cific complaint,  but  made  them  none  the  less  dishonoured 
men  seeking  pity  for  their  own  inept  weakness.  But  he  had 
told  Amberley  some  of  his  feelings — how  unwise  he  had 
been !  Amberley  never  forgot  anything  that  might  serve  as 
a  touch  of  verisimilitude  for  his  lampoons,  making  them 
corrosively  effective,  making  his  victims  the  more  con- 
temptible by  mere  burlesqued  echoing  of  their  actual 
thoughts. 

Amberley  rose  before  him  as  a  monster,  a  hateful  be- 
trayer. He  was  making  fun  of  him,  making  Barbara  laugh 
at  him,  at  first  unwillingly,  and  then,  by  sheer  perversion, 
making  her  laugh  and  join  in  the  ridicule — which  is  a 
weakness  no  human  being  can  resist.  To  laugh,  for  fear  of 
being  the  next  victim! 

But  had  he  so  betrayed  himself?  A  little  awkwardness 
of  manner,  perhaps,  there  had  been;  but  no  definite  be- 
trayal could  have  been  made.  He  had  said  .  .  .  what  had 
he  said?  He  couldn't  remember  what  he  had  said:  the 
memory  was  only  one  of  stumbling  eager  haste  to  get  away. 
Perhaps  they  had  thought  him  only  hurried?  But  he  had 
been  so  confused :    they  couldn't  have  helped  noticing.     It 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  209 

was  only  natural  that  they  should  notice;  and  Amberley 
would  take  full  advantage  of  that.  Amberley  always  saw 
more  than  there  really  was  to  see.  He  impregnated  every- 
thing with  his  own  petty  spite.  He  made  laughter  where 
no  laughter  might  be  imagined.  He  was  disloyal :  he  sac- 
rificed everything  to  his  own  desire  to  be  thought  witty. 
What  malice  lurked  in  Amberley's  mind,  unsweetened  by 
any  true  feeling ! 

Velancourt,  mounting  the  hill  to  the  Spaniards  Inn, 
stopped  breathlessly  short.  The  sky  glowed  above  the  hill 
rise,  and  the  buildings  to  right  and  left  had  a  pale  marvel 
in  the  darkness.  The  trees  beyond,  for  all  the  lateness  of 
the  year,  retained  some  leaves,  and  stood  gauntly  above  the 
roadway.  He  closed  his  eyes,  as  though  to  draw  in  the 
spirit  of  the  wondrous  sight.  Wasn't  he  being  disloyal  him- 
self— to  Amberley?  Amberley  had  always  been  kind  to 
him.  Amberley  had  somewhere  that  mysterious  longing  for 
the  true  understanding  of  human  endeavour  that  makes 
even  hard  men  sometimes  human  themselves.  Surely  he 
had  only  imagined  all  these  horrors  ? 

He  was  too  far  gone  in  them  to  recover.  Miserably,  with 
unsteady  breathing,  he  walked  along  the  high  causeway 
above  the  Heath,  and  saw  the  little  humped  bushes  in  the 
hollows,  and  heard  scattered  words  from  the  promenaders. 
He  was  spent;  but  if  his  passion  of  resentment  against 
Amberley's  nature  was  exhausted,  the  bitter  conviction  to 
which  his  vehement  thoughts  had  been  as  fuel  was  still 
seated  in  his  heart,  not  to  be  expelled. 

II 

He  neared  the  White  Stone  Pond  at  the  top  of  the 
Heath,  beside  the  road  he  was  travelling:  and  there  were 
dogs  barking  there.  The  moon  shone  up  again  from  the 
shallow  water.  Velancourt  stopped  involuntarily.  The 
dogs  made  him  think  of  the  sea: 

"The  moon's  white  on  the  sea,  and  the  sea's  white  on  the  sand"; 


210  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

and  to  the  north,  as  in  a  haze,  a  far  prospect  stretched  mys- 
terious and  lonely.  All  below  him  were  uncountable 
bushes  and  trees,  and  solitary  lamps  upon  the  West  Heath 
Road,  below  the  declivity  over  which  he  looked.  Houses 
there  were,  and  slow-moving  couples,  and  still  figures  upon 
the  straggling  seats ;  and  the  moon  like  silver  above  them 
all,  throwing  squat  black  shadows,  and  overcasting  the 
earth  with  the  cold  spell  of  her  pallor,  until  the  world 
seemed  one  exquisite  silence,  like  a  dream  of  eternal  snows. 

Velancourt  was  breathing  short  and  sobbingly,  his  breath 
hanging  like  a  pure  cloud  before  him  in  the  cold  air;  and  a 
hand  seemed  laid  upon  his  heart,  chilling  him  with  a  sense 
that  despair  was  ever  within  call,  waiting,  like  death,  to 
carry  him  to  oblivion.  Beside  him  the  dark  fascinating  wa- 
ter, with  that  unflinching  moon  reflected  upon  its  barely- 
rippled  surface ;  and  away,  ever  so  far  away,  men  and  girls 
walking,  remote  from  him,  as  strange  and  unknown  as  his 
deepest  dreams. 

With  no  further  look  he  turned  away,  afraid  of  the  night, 
afraid  of  his  strange  hatred  for  his  friend,  puzzled  by  the 
inscrutable  sensations  of  his  own  heart.  His  eyes  might 
search  the  night ;  but  it  was  as  dark  as  his  own  destiny,  as 
secret  and  mysterious.  In  an  almost  panic  fear  he  strode 
into  Hampstead,  shouldering  those  who  passed,  lurching 
against  them  with  a  blind  rancour.  What  was  it?  What 
made  him  feel,  now,  that  he  had  never  a  friend,  that  he 
was  to  be  for  ever  solitary?  Cissie  was  there — his  own 
wondrous  rapture  with  the  earth's  beauty  was  his,  immacu- 
late— his  friend  was  as  constant — his  life  could  never  fail 
of  the  satisfaction  he  most  prized.  What  was  it  that  made 
him  so  inevitably  an  outcast? 

Velancourt  passed  down  the  crowded  street,  thronged 
with  people.  It  reminded  him  afresh  of  the  sea,  as  though, 
in  a  moment,  he  should  plunge  into  sight  of  the  grey  water, 
fleeced  with  foam,  and  with  the  moon  shining  white  upon 
the  sea  and  the  sand.  He  hurried  on,  excitedly  longing  for 
the  corner  which  should  infallibly  reveal  to  him  the  sway- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  211 

ing  waters  of  his  imagining.  He  felt  as  though  he  was 
fainting,  as  though  he  must  keep  on  at  this  tremendous 
pace  until  he  was  free  of  the  tumult  and  upon  the  pinnacle 
from  which  alone  the  revivifying  prospect  could  be  gained. 
His  heart  was  beating,  his  eyes  staring  into  the  immeas- 
urable distance. 

Then,  as  the  vision  faded,  he  groaned.  It  was  but  the 
mirage.  He  was  here,  in  the  crowded  street.  Behind  him 
were  the  figures  he  had  left — Amberley  doubled  and  dis- 
torted with  obscene  laughter  .  .  .  Barbara  laughing,  laugh- 
ing with  the  knowledge  of  his  weak  absurdity.  Before  him 
was  Cissie,  voluble,  petulant,  clinging  in  reproach.  He  was 
chained.  He  was  fast  in  the  dull  hopeless  mediocrity  of  his 
stifled  desires.  He  was  not  dead,  nor  alive ;  but  without 
pain,  without  ambition.  Despair  was  creeping  upon  him, 
numbing  his  heart,  dogging  his  steps  and  forcing  him  upon 
the  inevitable  path  of  servile  inglorious  failure. 

What  had  he  to  gain  from  life?  What  was  it  that  life 
held,  which  made  men  toil  desperately  to  keep  their  places 
in  the  restless  throng  of  human  particles?  Love — was  it 
love?  And  Cissie  was  his  figure  of  love,  shrewd,  practical, 
all-claiming.  What  was  it  that  men  wanted,  that  was  ab- 
sent from  his  own  nature  ?  Love — friendship — peace  ?  Did 
men  toil  only  to  distract  their  minds  from  present  miseries  ? 
Was  it  only  through  pain  that  men  found  the  true  Nepenthe 
for  which  so  unhappily  he  was  seeking?  He  shuddered  as 
he  walked,  and  a  sort  of  pride  rose  within  him  because  he 
could  not  be  content  with  the  compromise  that  such  men 
as  Amberley  found  endurable.  He  could  not  be  content.  A 
bitter  thought  came  to  him — was  he.  after  all,  for  this  re- 
solve as  noble  as  he  sometimes  felt?  Was  not  Amberley 
even  there  again  in  the  right?  Wasn't  he  made  useless  by 
his  own  .  .  .  Amberley  had  said,  fastidiousness  ?  He  him- 
self had  made  it  emotional  fastidiousness.  Was  that  all  it 
was?  In  his  heightened  mood  Velancourt  could  not  face 
the  doubts  of  his  own  mind.  He  had  felt  too  passionately 
to  find  such  problems  a  cure  for  his  distress. 


212  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Now  that  he  was  home  he  felt  only  sad  and  dispirited, 
and  his  exhaustion  made  his  limbs  tremble  and  his  heart 
beat  faster.  It  was  to  be  the  old  round  after  all,  with  only 
one  new  doubt  to  harass  him.  He  had  almost,  in  his  ex- 
cited imaginings,  forgotten  what  the  new  doubt  was. 

Barbara  Gretton.  .  .  .  Barbara  Gretton.  .  .  .  Faintly  the 
name  echoed  in  his  heart,  mysteriously,  inexplicably. 


CHAPTER    XXII 
BARBARA   SPECULATES 


WHEN  Amberley  took  Barbara  to  the  tramcar,  he  was 
wise  enough  to  keep  to  himself  any  thoughts  of 
their  late  disagreement ;  but  he  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  beg  her  to  come  again. 

"Susan  would  be  so  grateful,"  he  said. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  She  asked  me  to  come,"  Barbara  returned, 
without  committing  herself. 

"My  mother  also  would  be  very  glad." 

"I'm  sure  she  would.  That  only  leaves  you  to  complain, 
doesn't  it!" 

"Which  I  shouldn't  think  of  doing." 

Barbara  somehow  did  not  care  to  say  any  more  upon  this 
or  any  germane  subject;  she  contented  herself  with  asking 
about  Velancourt. 

"D'you  think  he's  happy?" 

But  Amberley  had  taken  alarm ;  for  many  reasons  he 
could  not  tell  her  his  true  opinion.  One  reason  was,  that 
it  was  no  business  of  his,  or  of  Barbara's. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  demanded,  as  a  retort. 

"Certainly.  So  are  you :  so  is  Susan.  I  shouldn't  have 
asked  you  such  a  question  if  I'd  been  in  doubt  about  most 
people."  Barbara,  as  Harry  would  have  been  the  first  to 
remark,  "came  the  elder  sister"  over  Amberley,  and  experi- 
enced in  performing  this  feat  a  subtle  satisfaction  not  eas- 
ily to  be  described. 

213 


214  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Well,  happiness  is  purely  temperamental  and  circum- 
stantial; and  you  know  what  a  prejudice  has  grown  up 
lately  against  circumstantial  evidence." 

"And  you'd  say  that  Mr.  Velancourt  was  temperamen- 
tally unhappy?" 

"I'd  say  he  has  many  varieties  of  emotional  experience." 

Barbara,  biting  her  lip  at  a  reply  so  apt  and  so  embar- 
rassing in  its  discrimination,  was  moved  to  make  another 
inquiry. 

"You  do  like  him?" 

"Very  much.  But  he  doesn't  know  where  he's  going. 
He's  come  to  cross-roads  in  a  fog,  as  you  might  say.  He's 
very  very  inexperienced,  and  just  a  very  little  inclined  to 
yearn.  But  he's  not  sentimental :  he's  only  got  bees  in 
his  bonent.  Of  course,  I  try  to  talk  to  him;  but  even  with 
the  aid  of  my  lucidity  he  can't  really  grapple  with  things." 

"Yes.     Are  you  always  as  complacent  as  you  sound?" 

"Invariably." 

"I  can't  believe  you." 

"That's  because  you're  a  woman.  They  can  never  trust 
candour.  But  Velancourt  is  very  handicapped ;  and  he's 
hampered  by  an  extraordinary  self-distrust." 

"I  could  imagine  you  would  hardly  appreciate  that." 

"Well,  isn't  it  injudicious?  You  wouldn't  say  it  was  a 
virtue." 

"D'you  mean  that  Mr.  Velancourt  is  handicapped  by — 
her?" 

"I've  no  means  of  knowing." 

"That  means,  you'll  hint  as  much,  without  daring  to 
say."  Barbara  spoke  quite  coolly,  and  he  understood  that 
she  spoke  sanely,  and  without  malice,  although  what  she 
said  was  unwelcome  to  him.    Amberley  explained. 

"It  truly  means  that  when  I  said  'handicapped'  I  was  not 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Velancourt's  character;  and  that  when 
you  challenged  me  I  realised  that  you  were  too  eager  to 
read  criticism  into  anything  I  say." 

Barbara  was  silent.     They  had  been  standing  near  the 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  215 

place  where  the  tramcars  start;  and  they  seemed  likely  to 
stand  there,  if  they  disagreed,  until  their  disagreement  came 
to  a  head. 

"Sometimes  I  think  you  so  objectionable  that  I  wonder 
to  find  myself  talking  to  you,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  bewil- 
dered tone. 

Amberley  did  not  attempt  to  reply.  He  saw  that  her 
tram  had  come  to  the  starting-place,  and  he  took  her  hand. 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that,"  he  said  soberly,  as  he  put 
her  into  the  tram.    "You  hurt  me !" 

"I  wish  I  could !"  thought  Barbara,  but  in  quite  a  friendly 
way.  She  watched  him  as  he  stood  on  the  pavement.  He 
did  not  turn  until  the  tram  was  far  down  the  road,  and 
Barbara  saw  him  standing  there  until  he  was  lost  to  sight. 
She  repeated  to  herself,  with  rather  a  guilty  sense  of 
cruelty:    "I  wish  I  could  .  .  .  somehow!" 

Of  course  that  was  the  whole  point,  as  she  readily  saw. 
Life  had  been  resolving  itself  for  her  into  a  trial  of  strength 
with  each  newcomer;  and  Amberley  was  the  only  person 
upon  whom  she  could  not  wreak  her  power.  He  was  the 
only  man  or  woman  known  to  her  who  was  both  stronger 
and  cleverer  than  herself.  Now  her  old  bewildered  in- 
quisitive dislike  of  him  was  losing  itself  in  a  kind  of  ad- 
miration that  carried  with  it  a  warning  of  self-contempt. 
She  said  to  herself:  It's  the  old  "Here's  something 
stronger  than  ourselves:  let's  worship  it!"  and  that's  a 
barbarism.  But  she  was  manifestly  trying  to  disentangle 
Amberley's  too-obtrusive  faults  from  her  own  dislikes  and 
jealousies;  and  Amberley  might  have  appreciated  that  if  it 
had  been  possible  to  be  quite  as  instantly  detached  about 
himself  as  he  was  about  other  affairs. 

Barbara  sat  in  the  tramcar  and  watched  the  street  go 
mooning  by,  and  she  thought  quickly  of  the  Amberleys  and 
particularly  of  Mrs.  Amberley  reading  about  somebody 
else's  troubles,  as  a  counter-irritant  to  her  own.  It  pres- 
ently made  her  laugh  behind  her  muff  to  think  of  Mrs. 
Henry   Wood   as   a   phagocyte!     Especially    she   thought 


2i6  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

about  Velancourt.  He  was  rather  interesting,  she  thought; 
and  it  would  have  been  far  jollier  if  he  had  stayed  a  little 
while.  She  thought  it  must  be  rather  awful  to  live  with 
Mrs.  Velancourt.  Barbara  was  even  not  above  saying :  "I 
know  the  type."  Of  course,  she  didn't  know  the  type ;  any 
more  than  do  the  other  people  who  say  "I  know  the  type." 
All  the  same,  she  formed  a  definite  notion  of  Cissie  Velan- 
court, which  differed  materially  from  Cissie's  personal  no- 
tion, but  which  was  quite  as  shrewd  as,  and  a  little  more 
thorough  than,  Cissie's  estimates  of  other  people. 
Barbara  was  sorry  for  Velancourt. 


II 

Barbara  was  so  sorry  for  Velancourt  that  she  continued 
to  think  about  him,  and  about  Amberley's  evasions.  For 
it  was  quite  clear  to  her  now  that  they  had  been  evasions. 
She  thought  back,  and  exonerated  him  from  the  charge  of 
hinting  more  than  he  dared  express.  She  even  had  some 
difficulty  in  checking  a  small  feeling  of  respect  for  his  treat- 
ment of  her  questions.  But  they  were  his  own  fault :  she 
could  not  treat  him  as  a  stranger,  and  yet  it  seemed  that 
she  could  not  treat  him  as  a  friend.  He  occupied  an 
anomalous  position  in  her  regard.  Now  she  saw  that  in 
the  circumstances  he  could  not  have  said  what  he  felt :  he, 
like  a  gentleman,  was  averse  from  gossip.  She,  as  a  clear- 
headed girl,  did  not  gossip ;  but  all  the  same  she  liked  im- 
mediately to  settle  the  doubts  that  arose  in  her  mind.  It 
would  have  been  quite  "all-right,"  she  thought,  for  Amber- 
ley  to  have  been  candid;  but  then,  no  doubt,  she  would 
have  found  it  desirable  to  disagree  and  to  snub  him.  Bar- 
bara smiled  very  comfortably  to  herself.  She  perceived 
that  Amberley  feared  her.  His  rudenesses  were  the  last 
resort  of  a  man  who  was  full  of  fear.  The  thought  was 
very  far  from  unpleasant. 

Probably  Mr.  Velancourt,  having  been  led,  or  entrapped 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  217 

by  some  scruple  of  honour  (Barbara  was  as  cruel  to  other 
members  of  her  sex  as  they  were  cruel  to  one  another), 
into  marrying  Cissie,  was  not  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  the 
dire  calamity.  Probably,  too,  Mr.  Amberley  knew  all  about 
it  from  him,  and  would  not  betray  the  confidence.  She 
wondered  if  men  told  each  other  such  things.  That  was 
where  they  were  such  a  puzzle.  Did  they,  so  to  speak,  kiss 
and  tell  ?  The  old  masculine  legend  was  that  they  did  not ; 
but  Barbara  knew,  as  the  modern  girl  is  sure  she  also 
knows,  that  masculine  legends  were  like  Mr.  Balfour.  They 
Must  Go !  Now,  if  Mr.  Velancourt  was  unhappy,  that  was 
a  pity.  She  felt,  in  fact,  a  strange  warmth  of  sympathy 
for  him.  He  became  a  painful  figure,  an  honourable  man 
in  distress.  Barbara  was  quick  to  see  the  picturesque  quali- 
ties of  such  a  position.  She  did  not  quite  see  how  easily  she 
was  sailing  with  the  wind,  and  regarding  Cissie  as  a  mere 
property,  a  lay-figure.  For  the  moment  she  saw  Cissie  as  a 
malign  force,  but  not  as  a  personality  to  be  reckoned  with. 
Her  own  interest  was  not  yet  very  poignant  in  Velancourt. 
She  was  engaged  in  a  fascinating  kind  of  speculation. 

As  the  tram  rumbled  nearer  home  Barbara  remembered 
Velancourt's  look  of  confusion.  Poor  boy :  he  had  not  ex- 
pected to  see  her.  Perhaps  she  had  driven  him  away.  She 
laughed  a  little;  and  then  became  grave  again.  It  was  too 
serious.  He  was  miserable — starving  for  kindness.  Very 
quickly  her  mind  leapt  from  that  fact  to  Amberley's  powers 
of  sympathy.  What  were  they?  Would  he  clumsily  han- 
dle Velancourt's  delicate  nature  with  a  sort  of  masculine 
left-handedness?    No.    She  nodded  wisely. 

"He's  horrible,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Oh,  quite  per- 
fectly horrible ;  and  he  annoys  me  almost  more  than  I  can 
realise  in  a  jolting  tram  ;  but  he's  rather  got  a  sort  of  beastly 
power  of  not  misunderstanding  in  a  degraded  way." 

That  was  as  far  as  she  would  go  in  praise  of  Amberley. 
If  he  wasn't  able  to  trust  her  with  his  opinion,  he  obviously 
was  rather  beneath  notice.  Even  if  he  had  really  been 
rather  torn.    He  had  been  torn  :  he'd  admitted  he  was  hurt. 


2i8  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

.  .  .  But  then  that  was  because  she  had  actually  commit- 
ted herself  to  crying  out  the  puzzle  that  beset  her.  "Mr. 
Joseph  !"  Poor  Mr.  Velancourt,  with  a  legal  friend  !  Some- 
body with  finer  sympathy  would  be  better  for  him.  Yes, 
but  why  bother  about  the  estimable  young  man?  One 
couldn't  be  continually  helping  lame  dogs  over  stiles :  they'd 
all  turn  round  with  a  sort  of  rabies.  Still  he  was  a  nice 
young  man,  she  thought  indulgently.  She  would  be  nice  to 
him.    Wasn't  that  supposed  to  be  rather  dangerous  ? 

"Tahn  All !"  said  the  conductor. 

In  a  pleasant  preoccupation,  Barbara  nearly  went  past 
her  stopping-place;  but,  just  in  time,  she  started  up  and 
jumped  off  the  tram.  She  had  been  thinking — oh  yes,  of 
course.  She  had  been  thinking  that  she  herself  was  more 
delicate  than  Amberley,  and  possessed  of  finer  sympathy. 
It  wasn't  as  though  she  couldn't  take  care  of  herself.  She 
was  Barbara  Gretton. 

When  she  thought  that,  Barbara  wilted  under  the  remem- 
brance of  Amberley's  exposure  of  the  Barbara  Gretton  of 
romance.    Oh,  he  maddened  her ! 

Barbara  walked  up  Theobald's  Road,  and  looked  up  at 
the  strange  moon.  She  had  become  self-conscious  at  the 
thought  of  Amberley's  accusation  and  their  disagreement. 
Only  her  mother  knew  of  her  tears;  and  her  mother  had 
told  her  to  go  to  the  Amberley s'  to-night,  and  to  enjoy  her- 
self, killing  any  resentment  she  might  be  inclined  to  feel. 
Her  mother  had  spoken  to  her  in  an  astoundingly  wise  man- 
ner, about  herself  and  about  Amberley.  .  .  . 

Her  mind  swung  round  again  to  Velancourt  as  she 
reached  the  house  in  Great  James  Street. 

"Yes,  well  what  about  the  girl!"  she  demanded,  aloud. 
"What's  she  doing?    Doesn't  she  see  what's  going  on?" 

Somehow,  for  all  her  "knowledge  of  the  type,"  Barbara 
could  form  no  mental  picture  of  Cissie's  state.  She  could 
not  think  of  Cissie  yet  as  anything  more  than  a  property. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  219 


III 


Up  the  stairs  toiled  Barbara,  with  the  sense  of  delight  at 
reaching  home  which  never  failed  her.  The  flimsy  door 
leading  to  the  top  flight  of  stairs  and  to  their  flat  was  shut ; 
and  she  had  to  knock.  Young  Harry  came  galumping  down 
the  stairs,  and  peered  out  at  her. 

"Hullo,  old  Barb!"  he  said.  "Been  to  see  the  Great 
Man  ?" 

Barbara  passed  up  the  stairs. 

There  was  Mrs.  Gretton  before  the  fire,  reading  a  book. 
Instinctively,  as  she  entered  the  room,  Barbara  went  across 
to  her  mother.  She  looked  down  at  the  book.  It  was  Be- 
yond Good  and  Evil! 

"Good  gracious,  mother!"  said  Barbara.  "Where  did 
you  get  that?" 

Mrs.  Gretton  looked  up  in  her  daughter's  face,  and 
caught  her  hand  with  a  little  squeeze. 

"All  right,  dear?" 

"Splendid,  thanks."  Barbara's  colour  deepened,  but  her 
honest  eyes  were  quite  frank. 

"That's  right.  Mr.  Amberley  lent  me  the  book.  He's 
very  provoking." 

"You  too,  mother?  Why,  I  thought  you  were  such 
friends !" 

Mrs.  Gretton  laughed  very  quietly,  a  tiny  laugh  that  was 
hardly  audible. 

"Oh,  we're  great  friends,"  she  admitted.  "But  he  treats 
me  as  if  I  was  a  girl ;  and  lends  me  books." 

Barbara  looked  away  sharply. 

"Why  shouldn't  he  lend  you  books?"  she  cried.  "If  it 
pleases  you  both." 

"Well,  my  dear;  I'm  an  old  woman,  and  he  tries  to  pre- 
tend that  I'm  not."  Again  Mrs.  Gretton  laughed  to  herself. 
"And  some  of  the  books  he  lends  me  puzzle  my  poor  old 
head  past  thinking." 


220  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"But  he  boasts  of  your  reading." 

Mrs.  Gretton  put  aside  her  book.  Young  Harry  had  re- 
tired, and  they  were  alone. 

"Barbara,  dear:  I  think  Ernest  wants  to  marry  little 
Susan  Amberley." 

"Mother !" 

"I'm  only  hoping  she'll  be  willing.  It  would  mean  every- 
thing to  him." 

"Has  he  said  anything?" 

"Not  to  me.    I  don't  know  if  he's  spoken  to  her." 

"No."  Barbara  knew  that  Susan  could  not  have  con- 
cealed it.  Irresistibly,  in  a  moment,  an  impulse  prompted 
her  to  exclaim :    "I  wonder  if  Joe  knows !" 

"I  think  there's  very  little  that  Joe  doesn't  know,"  Mrs. 
Gretton  said. 

Barbara  caught  the  Christian  name,  and  realised  that  she 
herself  had  used  it.  She  moved  away,  impatient  at  her 
own  embarrassment. 

"I  don't  like  things  of  this  sort  happening!"  she  said,  pet- 
ulantly. "Why  can't  people  go  on  being  friends,  and  not 
wanting  this  silly  sort  of  thing?  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Gretton  looked  at  her  daughter  with  love  in  her 
eyes. 

"Don't,  mother !"  cried  Barbara.  "It  is  silly,  and  disturb- 
ing.   Why,  Susan's  a  child." 

The  suggestion  chilled  her.  Poor  little  Susan !  She  was 
to  go  through  all  the  distress  that  Barbara  supposed  a  pro- 
posal to  entail.  Barbara  did  not  dream  of  doubting  her 
mother's  accuracy.  She  began  to  think  about  unhappy  mar- 
riages, and  about  the  woman  "paying" ;  and  she  was  irri- 
tated at  her  mother's  old-fashioned  delight  at  the  thought 
of  a  wedding.  Then  a  horror  came  to  her!  Susan — sup- 
posing it  did  ever  come  to  that — would  be  her  sister-in-law ; 
and  Joseph  would  be  .  .  .  She  rolled  her  eyes  in  burlesque 
horror. 

"Oh,  lor !"  she  ejaculated. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  221 

The  idea  was  too  much  for  her.  She  had  to  sit  down, 
and  stare  blankly  at  her  mother. 

"Well,  Barbara,"  said  Mrs.  Gretton,  nettled.  "You  can't 
have  everything  as  you  want  it.  I'm  afraid  you've  a  little 
got  into  the  way  of  expecting  it.  But  the  world  has  to  go 
on,  whatever  the  modern  celibate  woman  thinks  of  it." 

"Mother,  you've  been  learning  all  that  from  Mr.  Amber- 
ley!"  cried  Barbara,  incensed. 

Mrs.  Gretton  laughed  a  third  time,  very  quietly  indeed. 

"Mr.  Amberley  says  he  learns  it  all  from  me,"  she  said. 

Barbara  would  not  talk  any  more  about  that.  She  had 
always  known  the  man  was  a  bore.  Now  she  knew  that  he 
always  would  continue  to  be  a  bore.  She  must  dismiss  him 
from  her  mind.  And  of  course  the  first  subject  to  which 
her  dragooned  thoughts  turned  was  that  of  Velancourt  and 
his  wife.  Velancourt  seemed,  in  comparison  with  Amber- 
ley,  an  almost  fascinating  person  to  think  about.  She  would 
tell  her  mother  about  him,  and  enlist  her  sympathy.  .  .  . 

No.  On  second  thoughts,  she  would  keep  him  to  herself. 
She  was  sorry  for  him. 

A  soft  gleam  of  pity  came  into  Barbara's  eyes.  She 
stood,  with  her  head  bowed,  thinking  of  Velancourt. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
HEART  TO  HEART 

I 

THE  next  day  Velancourt  met  Barbara  on  the  stairs. 
He  stood  back  in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  landing  to 
let  her  pass ;  but  Barbara  stopped. 

"How  d'you  do,  Mr.  Velancourt?  When  are  you  coming 
to  see  us  again?"  she  began,  briskly. 

His  eyes  leapt. 

"It's  .  .  .  it's  very  good  of  you  to  have  us,"  he  said.  She 
was  in  the  brown  overcoat ;  and  her  brown  hat  had  an 
orange  decoration  in  it  which  exactly  matched  the  bow  at 
her  throat.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  bow  at  her 
white  throat :  he  dared  not  lift  them  to  her  face. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  not  an  answer,"  Barbara  said,  in  a  very 
distinct  voice. 

"No:  I'm  afraid  it  isn't,"  he  agreed.  "I  wonder  if  you'd 
tell  me  when  we  may  come?" 

She  suggested  a  day,  and  it  was  fixed  upon;  and  then 
she  went  up  the  stairs  to  her  home,  thinking:  "He  does 
look  wretched,  and  his  face  is  exactly  like  ivory.  He's  as 
shy  as  a  lamb."  But  she  remembered  his  great  big  solemn 
wonderful  eyes. 

Velancourt,  as  he  proceeded  down  the  stairs,  was  asking 
himself : 

"Did  Amberley  not  make  me  absurd ;  or  does  she  ignore 
all  that?" 

It  was  a  problem  not  to  be  settled.    Very  soon  its  mere 

222 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  223 

implications  led  him  into  a  bitter  mood  of  self-detraction, 
pleasant  enough  for  the  pain  it  caused,  but  not  very  useful 
either.  He  walked  up  Theobald's  Road,  and  for  the  first 
time  consciously  saw  the  dirt,  the  untidiness,  the  disgusting 
slovenly  squalor  of  the  neighbourhood.  It  appalled  him. 
He  had  never  seen  it  before :  he  had  been  too  busy  with  the 
stars  and  the  clouds.  It  made  an  impression  upon  him 
deeper  than  he  could  have  supposed  possible. 

"This !"  he  cried  to  himself.  Was  Barbara's  attitude 
really  a  better  one  ?  Amberley  knew  all  these  things.  Were 
they,  after  all,  more  real  than  the  things  he  himself  knew? 
Impossible!  If  they  were  real,  they  were  passionately  to 
be  denied.  They  might  be  real,  and  yet  have  no  reality. 
His  white  face,  deadly  earnest,  glowed  with  scorn  and  dis- 
tress. This  was  the  place — and  she  lived  in  the  midst  of  it. 
She  ?  Miss  Gretton.  How  kind  she  had  been,  and  cordial. 
He  was  glad  of  it,  as  a  partial  refutation  of  his  last  even- 
ing's waking  nightmare.  It  made  his  horror  of  meeting 
Amberley  less  acute ;  and  he  had  been  feeling  hitherto  that 
he  would  have  to  hurry  past  Amberley  without  speaking,  so 
nervously  obsessed  had  he  become  by  the  idea  that  he  had 
made  himself  ridiculous. 

Later,  on  her  way  back  to  the  office  after  lunch,  Barbara 
again  saw  Velancourt.  This  time  it  was  in  Hand  Court,  a 
narrow  passage  with  the  wall  of  an  hotel  on  one  side  and  a 
row  of  curious  broken-down  print  and  second-hand  shops 
on  the  other.  Velancourt,  when  she  caught  sight  of  him, 
was  poring  over  a  tray  of  dirty  old  books,  as  though  they 
were  bright  jewels  which  he,  a  miser,  was  caressing.  It 
struck  her,  even  then,  that  he  looked  blind,  and  she  smiled 
at  the  thought  of  a  blind  connoisseur.  It  made  her  think 
of  Isaac  in  his  old  age. 

Just  as  she  was  abreast  of  him  Velancourt  was  turning 
away  from  the  shop,  and,  still  half-standing  with  his  back 
to  her,  he  took  off  his  hat  fumblingly.  "How  awkward  he 
is !"  she  thought.     Then,  drily :     "I  know  that's  a  sign  of 


224  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

genius,  because  Havelock  Ellis  says  so."  Aloud,  she  said, 
noticing  a  book  under  his  arm : 

"Have  you  just  bought  that?" 

Velancourt  showed  it  to  her :  the  book  was  a  translation 
of  Fenelon's  Existence  of  God. 

"Good  gracious!"  cried  Barbara.  "Is  this  what  you  read, 
then?" 

"I  .  .  .  got  it  .  .  ."  Velancourt  explained,  painfully. 
"He  seems  to  express  my  own  feelings.  I  felt  I  must  read 
it.    It  was  only  twopence." 

"Quite  enough,  too :  dirty  old  book."  She  took  the  book, 
and  frowned  ridiculously  upon  it. 

"Oh  .  .  .  d'you  think  so?"  His  face  flushed,  and  his 
voice  showed  grievous  disappointment.  "Old  books  are 
often  like  that.  It  suits  some  books.  It's  not  really  very 
dirty."  Each  sentence  ended  interrogatively,  as  though  in 
his  own  mind  he  was  saying:    "Don't  you  think?" 

She  handled  it  with  a  rather  gingerly  air,  amused  at  his 
tone  and  his  silent  eagerness. 

"I'm  sure  this  one's  very  well  suited,"  she  smiled,  relent- 
ing but  ambiguous.  "Thank  you.  I  must  hurry."  With 
that  she  replaced  the  book  in  his  hand  and  passed  on. 

Both  of  them  were  dissatisfied  with  the  encounter;  and 
both  remembered  it  with  disappointment,  because  each 
thought  the  other  had  misunderstood,  albeit  with  some 
justification.  Barbara  recollected  his  look  of  sorrow  at  her 
strictures,  and  was  afraid  she  had  been  brutal:  Velancourt 
remembered  every  word  that  had  passed,  and  once  or  twice 
during  the  afternoon  looked  upon  the  dusty  cover  with 
veneration  because  Barbara  had  touched  it.  To  him,  that 
became  an  association.  He  even  forgot  to  read  anything 
from  the  book's  pages,  in  his  thought  of  an  association  so 
purely  secular.  He  did  not  take  the  book  home,  but  left  it 
upon  his  desk  at  the  office,  and  sometimes  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  it  with  a  particular  attention. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  225 


II 

During  the  afternoon  Amberley  ran  upstairs  to  the  offices 
of  Robinson,  Seares,  &  Turnpike ;  and  popped  his  sleek  head 
into  the  outer  room.  Seeing  Velancourt  alone,  he  advanced, 
and  made  signs  of  greeting. 

"All  alone  ?"  he  asked.  Velancourt  nodded,  shrinking  into 
himself  from  an  instinct  of  shame.  "I  say,"  went  on  Am- 
berley; "I'm  awfully  sorry  you  couldn't  stop  last  night. 
Why  didn't  you  ?" 

Velancourt  looked  as  though  he  was  inclined  for  some 
obscure  reason  to  be  resentful. 

"I  really  couldn't  spare  the  time  to  stay,"  he  said,  awk- 
wardly enough.    "I  had  to  get  back  home." 

Amberley  knew  he  was  not  telling  the  truth.  He  sat  on 
the  edge  of  Velancourt's  desk. 

"Don't  fib !"  he  adjured  him.  "You  know  there  was  no 
hurry  for  the  books.  Did  Miss  Gretton  scare  you?"  He 
was  watching  with  keen  eyes  for  a  repetition  of  Velancourt's 
confusion. 

"I  had  to  get  home,"  Velancourt  said,  stubbornly. 

"Well,  come  soon  again.  If  you  come  next  Monday  I 
expect  I  shall  be  all  alone."  He  was  struggling  with  an 
unknown  feeling,  which  bade  him  say  to  Velancourt :  "Go 
to  the  Devil !"  and  the  reaction  from  that  made  him  almost 
insincerely  persuasive. 

"No :  we're  coming  to  see  the  Grettons,"  Velancourt  told 
him,  with  eyes  averted.    "Cissie  and  I." 

"Good !"  Amberley  slipped  off  the  table.  "I'm  glad 
they  cotton  on  to  you." 

"Miss  Gretton  asked  me."  Velancourt  looked  defiant,  a 
strained  expression  upon  his  mouth. 

"Splendid."  Amberley  tried  not  to  be  ostentatiously  in- 
sincere in  his  unwilling  congratulations.  "That's  cham- 
pion." 

They  did  not  seem  to  have  any  more  to  say ;  so  Amberley 


226  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

wandered  to  the  door.  Velancourt  looked  after  him  with 
a  vague  stirring  of  irritation.  The  nervous  irritability  that 
made  his  temper  fly  was  held  in  check  only  by  passionate 
desire  to  accept  Amberley 's  friendliness  as  frankly  as  it  was 
offered. 

"You  see  I'm  getting  quite  social,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "You 
ought  to  be  glad  of  that." 

"Best  thing  you  can  do,"  said  Amberley,  shortly.  He 
found  the  man  truly  insufferable. 

"You  said  you'd  come  over  to  see  us  some  time.  Cissie 
would  very  much  like  it." 

"Really?     If  she'd  like  it "     He  wasn't  thinking  of 

that  at  all :  his  eyes  were  narrowed  with  quite  another  pre- 
occupation.   There  was  hostility  in  his  carriage. 

"She  asks  me  continually  why  you  don't  come,"  said 
Velancourt  in  a  dry  voice. 

"Next  week.  .  .  ."  Amberley  disappeared,  shutting  the 
door  conscientiously  after  him. 

"It's  all  very  well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  he  was  on  the 
stairs.  "But  I  suppose  I've  got  some  sort  of  ridiculous 
duty  to  myself,  haven't  I  ?  The  world's  not  made  for  you 
to  sterilise!" 

He  recognised  how  ungenerous  he  had  become  in  his  first 
flutter  of  jealousy.  He  did  not  try  to  deceive  himself.  He 
thought  of  Velancourt's  bitter,  irritated  voice,  and  he  shook 
his  head.  He  wasn't  going  to  let  any  man  on  earth  spoil 
his  happiness,  if  he  could  help  it.  Velancourt  was  a  child, 
but  a  child  with  a  hard  shell ;  and  children,  particularly  chil- 
dren with  shells,  had  a  habit  of  being  ungrateful  and  self- 
centred.  Clearly  Velancourt  understood  himself  less  well 
than  he  thought  he  did;  and  perhaps  he  was  as  clearly  a 
mere  insufferable  blunderer? 

"Come,  come!"  thought  Amberley.  "It's  my  blooming 
liver,  or  something.  First  I  see  spots,  and  then  I  get  the 
hump.  And  all  because  of  an  addle-pated  Wandering  Jew 
I'm  trying  to  save  from  Highgate  Ponds.  What  a  muddle 
I'm  in — it's  the  fate  of  every  busybody!" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  227 


III 

Velancourt  went  home  that  evening  with  a  feeling  of 
some  trepidation.  Cissie  had  not  been  very  well  for  the 
last  day  or  two,  and  when  she  was  ill  Cissie  was  affected 
with  the  annoyance  of  wounded  animals,  as  well  as  her  own 
mistrust  of  his  affections.  Even  so,  there  were  still  many 
moments  when  they  seemed  almost  in  splendid  unison — 
moments  when  Cissie,  rising  to  her  best  self  (Velancourt 
sometimes  supposed  it  was  her  real  self,  and,  if  we  are 
most  real  when  we  are  happiest  and  most  generous,  perhaps 
he  was  not  so  very  far  wrong) ,  would  forget  all  those  fears 
which  rose  clamorously  doubting  in  her  heart.  If  she  for- 
bore to  speak,  and  listened  only,  or  was  silent,  then  Velan- 
court would  suppose  their  moods  and  aims  and  spiritual 
existence  one  and  indivisible;  it  was  when  she  spoke  that 
she  estranged  him. 

This  evening  Cissie  was  better,  but  in  a  subdued  state, 
as  one  who  needed  to  be  gently  handled.  She  had  devotedly 
cooked  Velancourt's  meal,  but  it  had  "caught"  while  her 
back  was  turned ;  and  although  she  had  instantly  plunged 
the  pot  into  cold  water  she  was  afraid  the  meat  would 
taste,  and  be  uneatable.  She  sat  by  the  fire,  and  watched 
him  with  nervous  expectation.  If  she  had  told  him,  she 
knew  he  would  have  found  it  so  full  of  the  burnt  flavour 
that  he  could  not  have  done  more  than  taste  it.  So  she  said 
nothing,  and  waited  with  unconscious  pathos,  with  her 
evening's  happiness  in  the  balance.  Velancourt,  still  think- 
ing of  Barbara,  ate  his  meal  without  comment.  Cissie 
watched  him,  and  hid  a  smile,  and  chuckled  to  herself.  .  .  . 
Her  wisdom  in  keeping  her  own  counsel  had  been  justified. 

"Like  it?"  she  demanded.  She  could  not  help  a  lec- 
turing note  coming  into  her  voice.  It  was  a  sort  of  indul- 
gence, but  the  hardness  of  her  voice  made  it  more  irritating 
than  she  knew. 

"Very  nice,"  he  answered,  mechanically.     He  left  the 


228  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

table,  and  came  to  the  fire,  and  Cissie,  stretching  up  from 
her  chair,  could  just  touch  and  hold  his  hand.  He  sat 
obediently  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  she  leaned  against 
him,  as  happy  as  possible.  Presently,  as  her  thoughts  made 
their  circuit,  she  became  practical. 

"Anything  in  the  paper  to-day  ?" 

"I  didn't  see  anything.  The  one  I  wrote  after  yesterday 
was  in  again." 

"Hm.     Funny  they  didn't  write,  isn't  it?" 

"Perhaps  they're  waiting  till  they  get  all  the  replies." 

"Nobody  ever  seems  to  write.  .  .  .  It's  funny.  .  .  . 
Never  mind.  I'm  so  happy  this  evening."  They  were  silent 
in  the  fireglow  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  :  "You  happy  ?" 
she  asked.  He  did  not  answer :  he  hated  that  question  be- 
cause it  was  so  steadfastly  reiterated.  "Boy?"  she  per- 
sisted, looking  up  at  him,  her  lips  pouting. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  assented.  She  could  see  his  heavy  frown, 
and  his  look  across  the  room. 

"You  might  say  so  .  .  .  when  I  ask  you,"  she  went  on, 
very  slightly  peevish.  "You  don't  like  me  not  to  answer 
you" 

Velancourt  was,  in  thought,  back  in  Great  James  Street. 
He  was  remembering  Amberley's  visit.  Cissie  stiffened  a 
little,  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  his.  She  did  not  see 
why  he  should  expect  greater  exactitude  of  attention  from 
her  than  he  was  prepared  to  give  on  his  own  account.  To 
her,  preoccupation  and  inattention  were  very  much  the 
same:  to  Velancourt,  as  it  will  be  gathered,  they  were  at 
the  extremes  of  bad  behaviour.  Presently  the  words  pene- 
trated to  his  mind. 

"What  was  it  you  were  .  .  .  Oh,  Cissie  .  .  .  I'm  sorry 
I  didn't  .  .  ." 

"Why,  you're  half  asleep !"  she  said,  suddenly  struck  by 
his  pallor  and  his  abstraction.     "You  look  tired  out." 

"I'm  awfully  tired."  He  turned  to  her  with  a  rather 
weary  smile.    But  she  was  full  of  concern. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  229 

"Here — you  sit  here  while  I  clear  away."  She  rose  from 
the  only  comfortable  chair. 

"No  .  .  .  you're  an  invalid.    I'll  clear  away." 

In  the  struggle,  which  was  only  an  excuse  on  her  part 
for  a  small  embrace,  she  was  victorious,  and  Velancourt  sat 
in  the  chair.  She  was  back  again  in  five  minutes,  and  knelt 
before  the  fire,  poking  it  into  a  little  blaze.  In  helping  her- 
self up  by  his  knee  it  occurred  to  her  to  stay  where  she 
was ;  and  Velancourt  could  see  the  little  darting  flames  shine 
upon  her  face  and  hair  and  bright  eyes.  He  bent  forward 
and  kissed  her,  with  a  funny  crying  feeling  in  his  throat; 
and  Cissie  laughed,  holding  his  face  against  hers. 

"Couldn't  help  it!"  she  said.    "Could  you?" 

He  did  not  answer  her.  It  was  so  much  better  to  sit 
thus,  as  though  they  were  in  their  home,  happy,  blessed  with 
trust  and  quiet  contentment.  If  there  were  not  so  many 
other  things  in  life !  He  often  remembered  Amberley's 
sagacities  about  conflicting  desires  and  how  they  cancelled 
each  other  out,  leaving — discontent. 

"Don't  let's  talk,"  he  said,  pleadingly. 

"Don't  you  like  me  to  talk?"  Cissie  felt  a  pang  at  his 
words.  She  never  could  realise  it:  the  bridling  of  her 
tongue  was  so  painful  when  her  speeches  were  provoked 
by  her  happiness  at  being  with  him. 

"Hush."  She  thought  to  herself :  "Why  shouldn't  I  ?" 
But  she  kept  still. 

They  sat  before  the  fire  until  Cissie  grew  too  hot,  and 
moved  back. 

"Why  doesn't  your  friend  come  to  see  us  ?"  She  always 
spoke  thus  of  Amberley. 

"He's  coming  next  week.  And  oh,  Cissie  .  .  ."  Velan- 
court hesitated  a  moment.  "We're  invited  to  go  ...  to 
the  .  .  .  to  the  Grettons'  next  Monday." 

"Oh."  She  did  not  say  she  was  glad :  she  could  not  have 
said  it.  He  tried  to  carry  off  the  silence  with  an  appropri- 
ate remark. 

"That'll  be  all  right  for  you,  won't  it?" 


230  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Cissie  knew  quite  well  that  he  knew  the  evenings  were 
all  alike  to  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  slowly  and  awkwardly.  "They 
don't  want  me." 

"Of  course  they  do.    Cissie !" 

She  could  not  read  his  tone.  They  were  apart  now.  If 
she  had  been  in  his  arms  she  would  not  have  been  unhappy ; 
but  he  was  looking  away  from  her,  and  she  could  see  the 
dispirited  droop  of  his  mouth. 

"You  want  to  go.  You  don't  see  it's  dull  for  me,"  she 
said,  in  a  choked  voice.  His  head  hung  heavily,  and  she 
knew  that  the  frown  had  reappeared ;  yet  she  continued  to 
speak.  "You  never  think  how  they  treat  me  as  if  I  was 
.  .  ."  Her  voice  was  drowned  in  self -sympathy.  "You 
don't  care  if  I'm  tired  to  death,  so  long  as  you  get  flattered 
enough  by  them!    You  never  think  of  me." 

Velancourt  rose,  and  stood  there  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  For  once  in  his  life  he  did  the  right  thing.  He 
came  over  to  Cissie  and  took  her  trembling  hands  in  his 
own,  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  as  boldly  as  if  he  had  been 
a  man  of  the  world. 

"Cissie,  dear !"  he  said,  quietly.  "Aren't  you  a  little  silly 
girl!" 

Cissie  began  to  cry. 

"Oh,  you're  .  .  .  splendid  to  me!"  she  said,  gaspingly. 
"I'm  a  pig,  and  you're " 

"And  then  Amberley's  coming,  too,"  he  urged,  disin- 
genuously. 

Cissie's  tears  were  quickly  dried.  They  came  easily,  but 
they  as  easily  went. 

"Quite  a  whirl  of  gaiety!"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  shin- 
ing.   "It  is,  for  me !" 

Velancourt  straightened  himself  again,  and  sat  down  in 
the  chair.  Cissie  thought  to  herself  that  she  would  not 
wear  for  the  Gretton  visit  that  blouse  he  disliked — not  that 
she  saw  anything  the  matter  with  it.  Other  times,  he  had 
to  put  up  with  it ;  but  for  that  evening  she'd  wear  .  .  .  Her 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  231 

mind  wandered  away  in  speculation  as  to  what  she  could  do 
with  her  white  silk  blouse,  to  make  it  fit  to  be  worn  at  such 
a  party.  She  was  perfectly  busy  with  such  a  pleasant  thrill 
of  busy-ness. 

Later,  she  slipped  over  to  the  fireplace  and  ruffled  Velan- 
court's  hair. 

"I  wish  we  were  always  like  this,"  she  whispered,  in  his 
arms.  "Sometimes  .  .  .  you  know  ...  I  get  so  cross,  and 
don't  mean  it.  .  .  .  And  you  look  frowny,  and  that  makes 
me  wild."  She  gave  a  great  sigh.  "I  suppose  it's  just  love 
makes  us  do  it  .  .  .  Adrian !     Say  you  think  so,  too.  .  .  ." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  Velancourt  almost  groaned.  He  did 
not  dare  to  let  his  mind  escape  from  the  actual  moment. 
Once  away,  it  would  be  plunged  into  all  sorts  of  memories, 
and  thoughts,  and  miseries,  that  were  useless  and  exhaust- 
ing, and  that  made  Cissie  watchfully  unhappy,  as  well  as 
himself.  He  did  not  dare  even  to  think  back  over  that  day 
.  .  .  when  Barbara  Gretton  had  twice  spoken  to  him,  and 
gone  her  splendid  courageous  way,  brimming  with  the  per- 
sonality he  so  painfully  admired.  Barbara  .  .  .  Cissie  .  .  . 
He  held  Cissie  closer,  until  she  trembled ;  but  he  could  not 
have  borne  to  look  at  her. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

TWO  CARDINAL  FACTS 

I 

AMBERLEY  wondered  hastily  whether  the  jealous  feel- 
ings in  his  heart  were  there  on  account  of  Barbara 
or  of  Velancourt — whether  they  were  aroused  by  the  ap- 
parent theft  of  Velancourt  or  by  some  vague  fear  for  Bar- 
bara. He  could  not  tell ;  but  he  was  much  less  calm  than 
usual.  In  a  way,  his  hands  were  tied,  for  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  dare  everything,  even  possibly  Susie's  happiness, 
by  proposing  at  once  to  Barbara.  That  was  his  first  im- 
pulse. Engaged  to  Barbara,  he  consolidated  his  position : 
refused  by  her,  he  lost  Barbara  and  Velancourt.  If  it  came 
to  the  point,  of  course,  he  would  let  Velancourt  go.  He  did 
not  know,  however,  how  dangerous  Velancourt  was  to  his 
peace  of  mind.  Velancourt  was  tied  by  Cissie ;  and  for  that 
very  reason  became  more  difficult  to  judge,  since  his  nature 
was  highly  strung  and  his  inexperience  so  unusual  as  to 
make  his  actions  under  stress  quite  beyond  foresight.  Bar- 
bara was  so  much  herself  that  he  could  not  hope  for  any 
chance  of  moving  her.  Yet  he  must  not  interfere  with 
Susie.    He  had  to  consider  her  happiness. 

He  needed  no  emphasis  of  his  love  for  Barbara.  He  was 
quite  sure  of  it,  and  he  knew  that  marriage  to  a  woman 
he  admired  would  entirely  change  and  illumine  his  life. 
Her  selfishness  was  that  of  youth,  not  of  nature;  and  he 
placed  all  his  trust  in  the  fact  that  she  was  Mrs.  Gretton's 
daughter.     But  she  was  perverse ;  she  might  at  any  time 

232 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  233 

surprise  him,  discomfit  him.  That  did  not  matter,  so  long 
as  she  became  his  wife.  Well,  he  would  see.  He  would 
call  upon  the  Velancourts,  according  to  promise;  and  he 
would,  for  the  moment,  refuse  to  allow  his  emotions  to 
obtrude  themselves  upon  his  daily  affairs.  They  had  no 
place  there:  he  left  excitement  to  others. 

So,  on  the  Tuesday  evening  following  the  Velancourts' 
visit  to  the  Grettons,  he  set  out  for  Hampstead.  He  saw 
a  lot  of  silly  girls  and  young  men  engaged  in  the  sport 
known  as  "picking-up,"  and  received  many  wolfish  glances 
from  desperate  maidens ;  and  reached  the  Velancourts'  flat 
with  a  sense  of  relief.  He  had  to  light  a  match  to  read 
the  number  of  the  door;  and  he  presently  found  that  the 
bell  did  not  ring,  so  that  he  had  to  rattle  the  letter-box. 
He  seemed  to  rattle  the  letter-box  for  a  long  time  before 
Cissie  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  said.  "Oh,  it's  you.  Stranger!"  As 
he  stepped  inside,  she  said,  "Adrian's  just  gone  out  for  a 
little  while." 

So  Amberley  took  the  flattened  arm-chair;  and  looked 
round  at  the  pathetically  futile  pictures,  and  at  the  shiny 
chairs.  Cissie  sat  on  the  little  wooden  chair  at  the  other 
side  of  the  hearthrug. 

"How  long  do  you  think  he'll  be?"  he  asked,  thinking 
that  perhaps  she  would  prefer  him  to  go  away  again.  But 
he  was  clearly  mistaken,  for  Cissie  began  to  be  highly  con- 
versational. 

"Not  long.  It's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  you,  isn't  it? 
Course,  I  know,  I  can't  expect  you  to  come  all  this  way^  to 
see  me.  .  .  .  Still  .  .  .  How's  your  sister?  She  married 
yet?  Not  engaged?  Wonder  what  the  men  are  thinking 
about?" 

"I  heard  you'd  been  not  very  well.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I'm  better,  thanks.  I  had  a  cold,  and  it  was  neu- 
ralgia— same's  I  used  to  have  before  I  was  married.  I 
used  to  have  it  awful.  Adrian  knows.  No,  it's  not  my 
teeth ;  but  mother  says  I  always  was  delicate  since  I  was  a 


234  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

baby.  Adrian's  been  rather  poorly  himself  these  last  few 
days.  I  expect  it's  all  the  damp  fog.  .  .  .  Always  get  it  at 
this  time,  don't  we  ?" 

"I  thought  he  was  looking  rather  seedy." 

"He's  not  very  strong."  She  leaned  forward  and  shook 
her  head  persuasively.  "He  says  he's  all  right;  but  I  tell 
him,  he'll  have  to  take  care.  /  believe  he's  rheumaticky — 
not  much,  you  know ;  but  quite  enough  if  he  will  take  these 
long  walks  at  night.    Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"I  should  have  thought  long  walks  in  the  damp  weather 
were  rather  bad.  Does  he  often  take  them?"  Amberley 
was  suddenly  interested. 

"He's  awful  to  do  it,"  she  said.  "Says  he  can't  sleep. 
I  went  out  with  him  once  or  twice ;  but  he  rushes  you  along 
at  such  a  pace.  I  said  to  him:  No,  boy.  You  go  alone. 
So  he  does." 

"Weren't  you  at  the  Grettons'  last  night?"  Amberley 
asked. 

Cissie's  face  changed.  Before,  she  had  sat  forward  in 
her  chair,  her  rather  pale  eyes  wide  open  in  a  sort  of 
hostess-like  ingenuousness,  talking  faster  than  she  could 
think.  Now  her  eyes  darkened,  and  she  sat  erect.  Her 
mouth  was  rather  thrust  out.  Amberley  was  almost  sur- 
prised at  the  intensity  of  feeling  she  showed. 

"Yes.  Oo  I  do  hate  that  girl  there,  with  her  tailor-made 
dresses.  She's  proud.  Seems  to  think  nobody  in  the 
room's  good  enough  for  her." 

"Do  you  mean  she  doesn't  talk  to  you  ?" 

"No :  she's  too  busy  talking  to  Adrian!  Sat  talking  to 
him — left  me  to  the  old  lady." 

"Mrs.  Gretton's  very  nice,  don't  you  think?"  Amberley 
had  endured  pain;  but  he  was  not  going  to  allow  Cissie 
to  suggest  anything  against  Mrs.  Gretton.  , 

"She's  old,"  said  Cissie. 

"Apart  from  that,  though?"  Amberley  appealed  to  her 
sense  of  justice. 

"She's  kind  ...  oh,  she's  kind,"  said  Cissie.    "But  that 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  235 

young  one!"  She  flounced  herself  about  in  her  chair,  in 
ludicrous  caricatures  of  Barbara's  attitudes,  in  all  her  cari- 
catures, however,  retaining  the  one  common  feature  which 
had  proved  so  annoying — superciliously  closed  eyes,  nose 
wrinkled  up,  and  mouth  drawn  into  a  crescent  of  con- 
temptuous repugnance.  Certain  movements  of  the  hands, 
indicating  lackadaisical  disdain,  were  unrecognisable,  and 
he  supposed  that  these  belonged  to  Cissie's  conception  of 
the  type.  He  wondered  how  the  imitation,  and  the  fact 
that  it  was  given  for  his  benefit,  would  appeal  to  Barbara. 
"Oh,  she  is!"    Cissie  jerked  her  head  up  in  distaste. 

"I'm  very  fond  of  her,  d'you  know,"  Amberley  said ;  "and 
I'm  sorry  you're  not.  That  pride's  really  only  skin-deep. 
She  wouldn't  do  anyone  a  bad  turn  for  anything." 

"So  you  think !"  retorted  Cissie.  "She's  a  ...  oh,  she's 
a  nasty  cat !" 

Without  warning,  Cissie's  excited  feelings  had  carried  her 
voice  into  a  grizzle ;  and  to  Amberley's  discomfort  she  put 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  began  to  dab  them. 

"Oh,  come !"  said  he.    "That's  not  the  way !" 

"Oh  the  way  he  looks  at  her  .  .  .  Oh,  he  is  a  ...  I 
hate  that  girl.  I  hate  her!"  choked  Cissie.  "And  as  if  I 
was  dirt  under  her  feet !" 

Amberley  was  quite  pale  at  the  disclosure.  It  shook 
him.    He  didn't  now  question  the  origin  of  his  jealousy. 


II 

Presently  Cissie  went  on: 

"I  expect  you  think  it's  strange,  me  talking  to  you,"  she 
said.  "But  you're  his  friend,  aren't  you?  I  was  wonder- 
ing if  he  ...  if  he  ever  said  anything  .  .  .  about  me." 
She  had  dried  her  eyes,  and  was  looking  at  him,  a  little 
colour  in  her  cheeks.    "You  know  him  well,  don't  you?" 

"You  know  him  better  than  I  do,"  Amberley  said.  "I 
know  he's  very  sincere." 


236  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"But  has  he  ever  talked  about  me?"  she  pressed.  "You 
know  .  .  ." 

"Certainly  not,"  he  warned  her.  "It's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness." 

But  she  was  started,  breathlessly  inquisitive  and  unre- 
strained. 

"Did  he  tell  you  he  didn't  want  to  get  the  furniture?" 

"He's  told  me  nothing.  Why  should  he  (or  you)  tell  me 
anything.  It's  no  affair  of  mine.  When  he  comes  to  see 
me  we  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things — not  about  our  homes, 
but  our  opinions — I  don't  quite  know  how  to  put  it — what 
we  think  about  various  things.  He  comes  to  me,  and  says : 
'Shakespeare's  a  rogue,'  and  I  tell  him  that  money's  a  curse. 
D'you  see?" 

"And  is  that  what  you  talk  about?" 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"What's  the  good  of  it?" 

"Well,  it  eases  our  minds.    What  do  you  talk  about?" 

Cissie  sighed — a  soft,  real  sigh ;  not  a  loud  one  meant  to 
be  heard. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  listlessly.     "Nothing,  mostly." 

"You  see,  he  likes  being  with  you,"  Amberley  said,  awk- 
wardly, but  with  a  kind  intention.  "That's  enough  by  itself. 
But  he  has  a  lot  of  notions  that  perhaps  wouldn't  interest 
everybody " 

"They  would !"  she  said,  suddenly. 

"Why  not  ask  him  to  tell  you  about  them?" 

"I  have.    Why  shouldn't  I  be  able  to  understand  them  ?" 

"I  suppose  you  understand  other  things." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  Amberley  said. 

"Well,  why  does  he  think  it?"  Cissie  was  biting  the  cor- 
ner of  her  handkerchief  furtively.  "I  can  talk  to  you  better 
than  I  can  talk  to  him.  I  can  tell  you  things.  I  can't  tell 
him." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  try?"    Amberley  prayed  for  Velan- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  237 

court's  return,  so  that  he  might  be  saved  from  this  in- 
quisition. 

"I  do.  He  just  looks  stupid.  And  he  reads  me  poitry  I 
can't  understand;  and  then  he  goes  out  because  he  can't 
sleep.     Oh,  he  is  cruel,  sometimes." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  he's  rather  unsettled  just  now. 
He'll  settle  down :  often,  you  know,  he  sits  with  me,  not 
saying  anything.    Some  people  are  naturally  quiet." 

"And  I  told  him  long  before  you  did,  that  he'd  have  to 
leave  Robinson's.  Never  took  any  notice  of  me.  He  did 
of  you." 

Amberley  was  learning  nothing  now :  but  his  own  imag- 
ined picture  of  their  life  was  being  confirmed.  What  could 
he  say,  or  do  ?  There  were  the  facts ;  and  her  little  dreary 
voice  went  on,  rather  husky.  She  was  obviously  being 
quite  sincere.  He  liked  her  better  than  he  had  done  be- 
fore ;  he  saw  her  side  of  the  question  more  clearly. 

"I  do  all  I  can,"  she  went  on.  "I'm  soppy  sometimes, 
and  I  get  wild,  and  ...  I  don't  know  what  ever  I  shall  do 
with  him.  You  think  I'm  half  silly,  don't  you?  'Specially 
talking  to  you  like  I'm  doing." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Amberley  said,  quite  unconstrainedly, 
"that  supposing  you're  fond  of  one  another  you'll  find  some 
way  out  of  the  difficulty.  Just  at  present,  I  expect,  you're 
going  through  the  hard  part.  You  didn't  know  each  other 
very  well  before  you  were  married ;  and  now  the  excite- 
ment's gone  off  a  bit  you're  in  a  sort  of  trough.  But  once 
you're  out  of  that — I  mean,  if  you  want  him,  you'll  find  a 
way  to  keep  him.    You  know  he  loves  you." 

"Do  I?"  she  said.  "S'pose  I  don't?"  She  looked  at  him, 
as  though  plumbing  his  honesty.  "He's  so  touchy.  That's 
why  I  can't  say  it  to  him.  I  know  sometimes  I'm  wrong, 
and  I  get  potty  .  .  .  say  catty  things.  See  ?  He  gets  white. 
I  know  what  that  means.  It  makes  me  wild.  I  go  on,  and 
say  more — worse.  I  can't  stop.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
He  gets  superior,  like  that  girl ;  and  looks  as  though  I  was 


238  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

a  saveloy,  or  something  else  that  he  doesn't  like.  I  get 
furious.    If  he  was  like  you " 

"He's  miles  better  tljan  I  am,"  Amberley  said.  "You'll 
find  that  out." 

"He  can't  understand  like  you  can." 

"No.  But  that's  because  he's  busy  with  thoughts  you 
and  I  don't  have.  You  know  he's  a  bit  annoying;  and  I 
know  it.  But  if  you  try  to  be  patient  you'll  find  you  get 
to  know  him,  and  he'll  find  that  you've  done  it.    And  he'll 

be  grateful "    Amberley  broke  off.     He  was  aware  of 

a  slight  air  of  Sunday  School  inspection  in  his  own  tones, 
and  it  made  him  redden  to  his  hair. 

"Go  on,"  Cissie  said,  breathlessly. 

"That's  the  whole  business.  What  you've  got  to  under- 
stand is  that  he's  not  like  other  men.  He's  better,  in  a  way. 
You  think  he's  worse." 

"No  I  don't." 

"Well,  he  provokes  you."  How  could  Amberley  combat, 
especially  in  face  of  her  clouding  eye,  the  philistine  attitude 
to  men  of  temperament?  "You've  got  to  be  patient,  and 
help  him." 

"But  I  want  helping  myself." 

Amberley  broke  down,  and  laughed  at  that.  Cissie  drew 
up,  offended  by  his  laugh. 

"My  dear  child,"  Amberley  said.  "Whoever  helps  others 
helps  herself  most  of  all.  If  you  do  what  Adrian  wants, 
he'll  do  what  you  want.  Why,  if  he  says  to  you  something 
that  seems  selfish,  you  get  selfish ;  but  if  he's  amiable,  you'd 
do  anything  for  him !" 

"I  would,"  she  agreed. 

"Well,  don't  you  see?" 

Cissie  looked  hopeful. 

"I  wish  he  was  like  you,"  she  said.    "I  do,  really." 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  Velancourt  came  into  the 
room. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  239 


III 


"Amberley !"  he  said.    His  eyes  swept  them  suspiciously. 

"Been  talking  about  you  !"  Cissie  said.  Velancourt  looked 
with  an  angry  hauteur  at  Amberley. 

"Is  it  impossible  for  you  to  leave  me  alone  ?"  he  said. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Velancourt.  I  arrived  a  little  while 
ago,  and  was  waiting  for  you.  What  better  topic  could  we 
have?"  Amberley  spoke  cheerfully;  but  in  his  heart  was 
a  bitter  thought,  to  see  Velancourt  standing  there  in  chill 
dignity,  and  to  know  that  Velancourt  was  at  the  moment 
merely  a  source  of  trouble  to  all  who  knew  him.  "What 
have  you  been  doing?"  Velancourt's  next  speech  would 
decide  their  future  footing.  Amberley  felt  he  was  per- 
sonally quite  indifferent  about  their  friendship.  What  had 
he  ever  gained  from  it? 

"I'm  sorry,  Amberley,"  Velancourt  said.  "I  beg  your 
pardon.    I'm  not  very  grand  this  evening." 

"It's  so  cold  and  damp,"  Cissie  said,  her  colour  coming 
and  going.  "Would  you  like  some  supper,  Mr.  Amberley? 
Only  got  some  bread  and  cheese." 

When  they  were  alone,  Velancourt  came  nearer  Amber- 
ley. Amberley  saw  his  hollow  eyes,  and  felt  bitter  im- 
patience. For  once  he  found  Velancourt  really  self-centred, 
unconscious  of  any  other  horizons  but  his  own.  But  if  he 
was  hostile,  Velancourt,  being  conscious  of  a  discourtesy, 
was  unusually  humble. 

"Amberley,"  he  said.  "You  know  I  told  you  that  Rob- 
insons were  very  slack.  .  .  .  Old  Mr.  Seares  came  up  to 
town  to-day,  and  said  he'd  made  arrangements  to  give  up 
the  whole  thing.  The  business  is  being  taken  over  by  some 
firm  in  Bedford  Row — what  business  there  is.  That  means 
that  at  the  end  of  the  year  I  shall  be  out  of  a  situation, 
unless  I  get  something  else." 

"You'll  get  something  else,  of  course." 


24o  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"I  simply  must!  I  can't  .  .  .  It's  worrying  me — I  mean, 
because  of  Cissie." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Amberley.  "Nothing  to  worry  about. 
Simply  set  yourself  to  get  another  job.  There  are  bound 
to  be  plenty." 

"I've  been  trying — answering  advertisements.  Some- 
thing prevents  me  from  getting  any  answers.  Perhaps  I 
write  too  pedantically?" 

"Or  too  modestly.    Have  you  told  Mrs.  Velancourt?" 

Velancourt  shook  his  head. 

"I  daren't,  to-night,"  he  said.  And  Amberley  could  not 
advise  him  to. 

Thereafter  they  had  supper,  at  which  Amberley  talked 
cheerful  nonsense,  and  Cissie  laughed  aloud — a  long,  rather 
racketing  laugh  that  drew  Velancourt's  brows  together  and 
made  him  shiver. 

And  when  Amberley  went,  Cissie  begged  him  to  come 
again ;  and  at  his  final  departure  she  turned  to  Velancourt, 
and  made  a  sage  remark. 

"Oh,  he  is  a  nice  fellow,"  she  said.    "He  understands." 

Velancourt  looked  dully  at  her,  without  comprehension. 
There  were  two  things  between  them  now.  There  was  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Seares  had  definitely  advised  him  to  look  out 
for  another  situation — and  he  could  hear  plainly  the  voice 
of  broken  glass  in  which  Mr.  Seares  had  spoken.  "Get 
out  of  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  had  said.  "You're  not  suited 
to  it."  Velancourt  could  not  tell  Amberley  that.  It  was 
one  thing  for  him  to  say  it  as  a  personal  conviction ;  it  was 
quite  another  to  have  it  said  by  Mr.  Seares,  for  that  last 
carried  with  it  what  was  practically  a  suggestion  of  failure. 
To  what  business  was  he  suited  ?  Oh,  if  he  only  had  Am- 
berley's  confidence!  No— not  that  either.  He  wanted  to 
be  himself.    He  would  win ! 

The  other  thing  was  his  love  for  Barbara  Gretton.  That 
he  had  recognised  in  a  sudden  white  flame. 


CHAPTER   XXV 
AMBERLEY  IS  DEFEATED 


THE  next  night  was  the  one  set  apart  by  the  Grettons 
and  the  Amberleys  for  their  theatre  party.  Barbara 
had  kindly  dismissed  her  feeling  in  favour  of  Miss  Widge, 
and  had  agreed  to  go  with  Susan  and  Ernest — and  of  course 
with  Joseph.  So  when  Amberley  had  finished  his  day's 
work,  and  when  he  had  assumed  a  suitable  cleanliness,  he 
walked  steadily  upstairs,  knowing  all  the  time  that  he  was 
trembling  with  an  unwonted  excitement.  Arrived  in  the 
Grettons'  home,  he  found  Susan  and  Barbara  already  wait- 
ing, along  with  Harry,  who  cheered  at  his  entrance ;  while 
Ernest  and  his  father  arrived  immediately  afterwards. 

They  all  sat  round  the  table,  Harry  and  Amberley  elbow 
to  elbow,  Barbara  on  her  mother's  right  hand,  Mr.  Gretton 
as  usual  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  Susan  and  Ernest,  both 
very  happy,  on  the  remaining  side.  It  was  a  merry  dinner, 
although  nobody  could  remember  the  jokes  that  had  caused 
the  laughter,  because,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  jokes 
were  the  product  of  the  laughter,  and  not  its  cause.  All 
the  young  people,  except  Harry,  were  excited ;  and  Harry, 
but  for  the  fact  that  he  liked  Amberley  so  much,  would 
have  thought  them  all  "rather  fools,"  as  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  thinking  most  people. 

Afterwards,  the  quartette  started  out  for  the  theatre, 
and  they  waited  in  the  pit  queue,  and  munched  chocolates. 
Then  they  entered  the  theatre  and  saw  a  strange  play  in 

241 


242  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

which  an  adulterous  wife  was  forgiven  by  her  husband  in 
time  to  permit  of  the  curtain  falling  at  eleven  o'clock  upon 
a  scene  of  perfect  happiness.  Whereat  they  departed,  a 
little  bored,  but  otherwise  very  much  as  they  had  arrived — 
certainly  with  no  great  profit  to  themselves  as  a  result  of 
so  humanising  an  experience. 

Susan  and  Ernest  marched  off  boldly  in  front  of  the 
others,  and  Barbara  and  Amberley  had  necessarily  to  fol- 
low. Both  lingered,  Barbara  because  she  thought  she 
guessed  Ernest's  intention,  Amberley  for  another  and  more 
personal  reason.  They  walked  sedately  along  Shaftesbury 
Avenue;  and  once  Amberley  pulled  Barbara  back  from  a 
dangerous  taxicab  which  was  purring  and  nosing  out  of  a 
side  street.  He  released  her  arm  instantly ;  but  the  contact 
with  her  made  him  more  nervous  than  he  had  been.  Bar- 
bara, finding  him  silent,  plunged  valorously  into  her  spe- 
cialty, dramatic  criticism.  She  took  the  play  they  had 
seen,  and  used  it  as  a  peg  upon  which  to  hang  her  strenuous 
arguments. 

"I'm  sure  such  plays  as  that  belong  to  an  old  type,"  she 
said.  "A  bad  type.  Even  you  would  agree  to  that,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"A  bad  old  type,"  Amberley  admitted. 

"Only  for  the  stage.  There  were  girls  sniffing  and  crying 
all  round  us.  I  expect  the  men  were  just  as  bad.  It's 
frightfully  unhealthy.  It  gets  the  theatre  a  bad  name. 
People  go,  and  go ;  and  they  lose  their  sense  of  reality.  It's 
like  getting  used  to  margarine,  or  some  patent  kind  of  but- 
ter made  of  kerosene :  you'd  lose  your  sense  of  real  butter. 
And  so,  when  somebody  really  comes  along  with  a  first-hand 
play,  with  real  people  in  it,  and  real  understanding,  and  a 
real  knowledge  of  life — people  don't  go." 

"I've  never  seen  such  a  play,"  Amberley  said. 

"You've   nev "     Barbara   really   couldn't   remember 

one  that  she  had  herself  seen.  How  horrible  he  was. 
There  must  have  been  several ;  but  he  had  driven  them  out 
of  her  mind.     There  was — well,  she'd  been  very  bored  by 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  243 

that.  She  didn't  think  that  some  plays  that  critics  said  were 
real  were  like  anything  on  earth.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  say 
things  like  that,"  she  said.    "They're  so  disconcerting." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  us  in  a  play?  Many  people  have 
seen  their  relatives  in  a  play  by  Robertson  called  David 
Garrick." 

"Never !"  she  cried,  bumping  against  him  in  her  excite- 
ment.   "They're  caricatures." 

"But  how  real,"  Amberley  persisted. 

"D'you  really  mean  to  say  you  think  people  are  like  that? 
You  must  have  very  distorted  vision." 

"I  see  people  as  they  are,"  he  said,  laconically. 

"It  seems  to  be  very  horrible." 

"Not  when  you're  used  to  it.  I  see  their  good  points  as 
well." 

"How  awfully  boring  it  must  be  to  sum  them  up — like  a 
judge." 

"It's  rather  a  satisfaction,"  he  said.  "It  makes  one  more 
content." 

"Oh,  content !"  Barbara  cried,  stopping  at  a  corner,  and 
looking  this  way  and  that.  "The  others  have  vanished.  I 
should  think  you  were  always  more  than  content." 

"I'm  hardly  ever  that."  He  walked  quietly  beside  her, 
in  spite  of  a  threatening  vehicle.  "But  it  doesn't  do  much 
good  to  quarrel  with  one's  own  nature.  There  it  is,  and 
one  has  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"You  can  improve  it  by  constant  endeavour,"  she  re- 
buked. 

"And  become  a  prig  for  your  pains.  Of  course  you  can 
do  that.  It's  not  much  good  to  you  in  the  more  important 
moments  of  your  life." 

"You  mean  it  slips  away?  But  what  d'you  call  impor- 
tant moments  of  your  life?" 

Amberley  felt  he  could  hardly  speak. 

"When  you're  trying  to  make  a  proposal  of  marriage," 
he  suggested. 

Barbara  reproached  him  with  a  look. 


244  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said. 

"Look  here,"  Amberley  began.  "Do  you  still  dislike  me 
as  you  used  to?" 

Barbara  almost  stopped,  so  curious  did  the  remark  seem. 
She  looked  on  ahead,  and  the  others  were  still  out  of  sight. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  faster. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  put  such  leading  questions." 

"Barbara:  can't  you  see  I'm  struggling  to  ask  you  to 
marry  me?"  He  sounded  indignant.  "I've  been  fighting 
all  the  evening  to  do  it.    No,  don't  hurry  on.    Please." 

Barbara  wavered.  Their  pace  slackened  at  once.  He  did 
not  touch  her,  but  went  on  talking  in  a  rather  desperate 
voice. 

"I  ought  to  do  it  properly ;  but  I'm  so  afraid  of  the  con- 
sequences." 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  you  hadn't,"  she  found  herself  saying. 
"I  do  wish  you  hadn't." 

"Well,  but  my  dear!  it's  the  only  way  to  find  out,"  he 
urged.  "I've  been  in  a  fearful  funk  ever  since  I  made  up 
my  mind." 

"It's  so  absurd,"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  no,  don't  let's  talk 
about  it !" 

Amberley  laughed  excitedly. 

"I  know  it's  rotten  to  spoil  your  evening,"  he  said,  like  a 
boy.  "It's  very  important,  though.  I  mean  it:  it's  been 
my  constant  thought  for  months." 

"Well,  that's  not  true." 

"It's  absolute  truth." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  Hart  Street,  and  he  saw 
with  sinking  heart  how  near  they  were  to  the  Grettons' 
house.     Barbara  turned  to  him  piteously. 

"But  I  don't  like  you !"  she  said,  in  a  half-angry  voice. 
"Oh,  it's  horrible!" 

Amberley  kept  doggedly  beside  her. 

"That's  not  true,"  he  said.  "There's  no  need  to  say  that, 
because  I  don't  believe  it.  You  may  dislike  me.  Perhaps 
you  do.    But  I  think  you  do  rather  like  me — now." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  245 

"I  was  beginning  to." 

"Won't  you  go  on?" 

"How  can  I  ?    It's  so  impossible." 

"You  know  what  those  young  people  are  thinking  of  ?" 

She  turned  upon  him  at  that,  quite  furiously. 

"Are  you  just  having  a  game?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  I  can't 
think  it.  No,  I'm  sure  you're  not.  But  it's — really  I'm 
sorry — it's  so  out  of  the  question." 

"It's  not,"  he  said,  stubbornly.  "Are  you  trying  to  pun- 
ish me  because  we've  argued  before  now  ?  There's  nothing 
— Good  God !  there's  nothing  impossible  about  it.  Any- 
way, from  my  point  of  view.  I  love  you.  I  have  loved 
you  for  months.  I  think  you're  the  only  girl  in  the  world. 
Of  course,  I  see  that  you  may  not  love  me  (I  admit  that 
I'm  wondering  how  anybody  could  love  me)  ;  but  it's  not  so 
grotesque  as  that,  after  all.  I'm  honest,  I'm  strong,  I've  got 
brains ;  and  I  love  you.  You  know  three  of  those  things : 
this  is  the  fourth." 

"I  don't  know  that  any  man  ever  bullied  a  girl  into  ac- 
cepting him,"  Barbara  said,  coldly,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"I'm  not  bullying;  as  you  very  well  know.  But  I  am 
fighting  for — well,"  his  self-consciousness  pulled  him  up. 
"I  was  going  to  say,  for  my  life.  And  that's  true  enough. 
It  is  a  man's  life.  That's  why  I'm  being  so  imperti- 
nent  " 

"Oh,  you  do  realise  that,"  she  said. 

He  caught  sight  of  her  exhausted  face,  and  was  filled 
with  compunction. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  making  you 
wretched." 

Barbara  caught  his  hand,  and  held  it. 

"It's  exciting,"  she  admitted.  "Look  here — I  can't  do  it. 
I  know  I  like  you.  Joe,  really  I  do.  I've  fought  against  it ; 
but  it's  true  that  I  think  you're  stronger  and  better  than  I 
am.  But  I'm  sure  I  don't  love  you."  She  gave  a  little 
nervous  laugh,  and  struggled   her  fingers   free   from  his. 


246  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"You  know,  our  relations  have  always  been  peculiar.  .  .  . 
Do  take  no ;  and  be  friends." 

"Oh,  you're  splendid !"  he  said.    "I  knew  you  would  be !" 

"Will  you?" 

"No,"  Amberley  said.  "If  you  say  no,  I  won't  bother 
you,  and  I  won't  presume ;  but  sooner  or  later  it's  got  to  be 
yes,  or  nothing.  Don't  let  it  interfere  with  the  innocents 
in  front  of  us." 

"You  like  that  ?"  she  asked.    He  shrugged. 

"It's  inevitable.  Ernest's  just  the  man  for  her;  and  she's 
a  dear." 

"Oh,  Joe!"  she  said. 

"Hush,"  Amberley  said,  with  a  twisted  smile  on  his  face. 
"You're  too  compassionate." 


II 

When  they  reached  Great  James  Street  they  found  that 
the  two  others  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  They  looked  up 
street  and  down  street;  beyond  the  brilliant  tramcars,  and 
down  through  the  grim  shadows  of  the  tall  houses  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

"They  must  have  gone  up,"  Barbara  said. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  It  made  her  heart  ache  to  observe 
his  thought  for  her. 

"You'd  better  come  up  too."  She  opened  the  front  door 
with  her  key.  The  hall  was  in  absolute  darkness.  Above, 
from  the  top  of  the  house,  they  could  hear,  very  faintly, 
happy  laughter.  They  stopped  instinctively;  and  Barbara 
gave  a  tremulous  sigh.    "You  hear?"  she  whispered. 

"Very  well."    Amberley  prepared  to  follow  her. 

"Joe,  dear.    I'm  so  sorry  and  ashamed." 

He  made  a  sharp  sound  of  protest,  a  sort  of  weary, 
deprecating  "Oh !" 

They  could  barely  see  each  other  in  the  darkness;  but 
Barbara  bent  towards  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoul- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  247 

ders.  Still  he  would  not  put  his  arms  round  her;  but 
raised  his  hands  to  her  elbows,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes 
as  though  in  spite  of  the  darkness  he  was  trying  to  pene- 
trate their  unfathomable  depths. 

"When  you  say  yes,"  he  whispered. 

"That'll  be  never."  She  dropped  her  hands  to  her  sides 
again.  "Come  along,"  she  said,  and  moved  towards  the 
stairs.  Amberley  stumbled  after  her  in  the  darkness,  up 
past  Velancourt's  office  on  the  first  floor,  up  and  up  until 
they  reached  the  warm  lights  of  the  Grettons'  flat. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

AFTERWARDS 


THERE  was  an  exasperating  five  minutes  before  the 
Amberleys  were  allowed  to  leave,  in  order  that  they 
might  still  be  in  time  to  get  home  before  midnight;  and 
Amberley  in  a  dazed  way  listened  to  the  laughter  of  Susan 
and  Ernest,  for  the  first  time  hating  merriment  as  much  as 
a  too  highly-strung  sick  person  hates  it.  When  they  actually 
left  the  flat,  Barbara  came  with  genuine  honesty  and  shook 
hands  warmly  with  him,  as  though  by  doing  that  she  might 
assure  him  of  her  new  feeling.  She  would  not  let  him  re- 
lease her  hand  until  she  had  spoken. 

"You're  to  come  soon,"  she  said.  "You  must." 
More  she  could  not  say,  because  the  others  were  there. 
But  she  could  not  help  looking  after  Amberley  as  they  went 
tramping  down  to  the  front  door.  If  he  had  turned,  she 
must  have  followed,  to  repeat  still  more  urgently  the  re- 
quest she  had  made.  And  now  that  he  was  gone  beyond 
reach  of  all  the  explanations  and  impulses  which  rose  to 
her  heart,  Barbara  was  quite  helpless.  She  was  not  tri- 
umphant: it  never  occurred  to  her  to  be  that.  She  was 
absorbed  in  him. 

And  the  Amberleys  walked  to  the  Holborn  Town  Hall, 
Susan  dancing  along  beside  Joseph  in  greatest  glee,  holding 
his  arm  and  hugging  it  in  the  lightest  of  high  spirits.  They 
went  on  the  top  of  the  tram,  where  there  was  nobody  be- 
sides themselves ;  and  Amberley  lighted  his  pipe,  and  Susan 

248 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  249 

tucked  her  arm  under  his.  Thus  they  sat  in  expressive 
silence.  He  could  see  her  smiling  uncontrollably.  At  an- 
other time  he  would  have  been  amused  and  protective ;  but 
now  he  was  sore  with  defeat  and  miserable  with  a  sense  of 
complete  disaster.  He  could  not  at  first  rouse  himself,  for 
although  his  heart  was  still  beating  fast  his  brain  was  sunk 
in  a  lethargy  of  remembrance.  It  had  all  been  so  swift ;  so, 
in  a  way,  casual;  and  he  had  failed.  There  was  failure 
before  him  and  behind  him.  He  had  never  failed  before. 
Failure  had  never  seemed  to  him  impossible ;  he  had  always 
been  quite  clear  about  that ;  but  its  far-reaching  effects  had 
somehow  made  it  imperative  that  he  should  in  this  case 
succeed.  Now  everything  was  lost :  if  he  had  not  so  ab- 
jectly failed,  Barbara  could  not  have  been  so  overwhelm- 
ingly kind.  Even  in  her  kindness  there  was  a  deeper  sting. 
Kindness  was  the  surest  sign  of  his  hopeless  plight.  If  the 
scene  in  the  dark  hall  could  have  been  repeated,  Amberley, 
in  his  present  distraught  mood,  felt  that  he  would  have 
given  the  world  to  kiss  her.  Then  he  was  thankful  that  it 
could  not  be  repeated.  The  temptation,  once  triumphant, 
would  so  have  grown  by  means  of  gnawing  thought  that  the 
pain  would  have  been  the  greater.  To  his  rescue  came  the 
sense  of  her  splendid  trust.  It  made  his  heart  swell  to 
know  that  she  was  all  he  had  imagined  her  to  be.  Silently 
he  breathed  to  himself  his  proud  understanding  of  her 
quality.  The  barrier  between  them  was  gone.  There  was 
at  least  no  barrier  now  to  their  understanding.  Oh,  but 
what  a  wife ! 

Susan,  with  an  unusual  shyness,  slipped  her  hand  down 
to  his,  and  pressed  his  arm  against  her. 

"Joe,  dear,"  she  whispered.  The  bright  colour  was  in 
her  cheeks.  He  bent  nearer  for  her  confidence.  "Did  you 
know?    I'm  so  jolly  tremendously  happy." 

"Why,  what  can  you  mean?"  he  asked  her,  resolutely 
unconscious  of  her  appeal. 

"Did  you  know?" 


250  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

He  had  not  the  heart  to  disappoint  her,  or  to  cheapen 
her  exultant  happiness. 

"You'll  never  guess !"  she  breathed. 

"Don't  say  you've  .  .  .  broken  a  window !"  he  said, 
lamely. 

Susan  peered  over  her  shoulder  at  the  empty  seats 
around;  and  said,  thrillingly: 

"Ernest's  asked  me  .  .  .  Oh,  Joe,  you  do  know !  Ernest 
wants  me  to  ...  I  can't  realise  it !" 

Amberley  pinched  her  fingers. 

"Well,  well !"  he  said,  in  great  surprise.  "Of  course  you% 
referred  him  to  mother." 

"Why  should  I  ?  It's  me  he  wants  to  marry !  Say  you're 
glad,  Joe !" 

"Wasn't  it  three  years  I  gave  you?"  he  teased.  "But  I 
expect  you  deserve  it  all.  It'll  make  you  into  a  real  woman. 
Don't  you  think  so?  Of  course  I'm  glad.  ...  A  little 
lonely,  perhaps."     He  was  only  pretending. 

"Oh !"  she  cried,  flushing.    "Not  for  years,  of  course." 

"Shall  I  give  you  three  months?"  She  shook  his  hand, 
for  punishment. 

Susan  began  to  talk,  full  of  extraordinary  vivacity,  of 
sudden  plans,  of  transparent  traps  to  catch  praises  of 
Ernest  and  appreciation  of  her  own  rapture.  She  talked 
on  and  on,  breathlessly,  like  a  lark  new  risen,  thrilling  out 
the  beauty  of  the  day.  And  Amberley  listened  with  a 
sober  face,  and  an  aching  heart,  catching  sometimes  a 
glimpse  of  her  own  happy  sweetness;  and  once  or  twice 
laughing  aloud  at  her  naivete. 

Later,  when  they  were  at  home,  having  supper  by  the 
warm  fire,  she  cried  out: 

"Hasn't  it  been  a  splendid  evening !" 

"What!"  cried  Amberley.  "You  surely  didn't  like  that 
rotten  play!" 

"It  was  a  disgusting  play,"  said  Susan,  emphatically. 
"But  all  the  rest !" 

"I  can  see  why  the  English  Drama  is  moribund,"  Am- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  251 

berley  said.  "It's  no  more  than  a  pretext.  For  the  first 
time  I  begin  to  appreciate  Mr.  Gordon  Craig's  Ueber- 
Marionettes !" 

II 

That  night  he  did  not  sleep  at  all,  but  tossed  from  side 
to  side,  over  and  over,  in  every  position.  He  sat  up  and 
strained  his  eyes  at  the  darkness,  and  put  the  pillow  right 
against  the  back  of  the  bed,  and  seemed  to  think  himself  sick 
and  tasteless.  His  mouth  felt  dry,  and  his  head  ached ; 
every  nerve  in  his  body  seemed  to  be  consumed  with  irri- 
tation, so  that  he  could  not  for  a  single  moment  keep  still. 
And  he  uttered  no  sound.  What  was  the  good  of  groan- 
ing? For  the  moment  he  was  beaten.  Even  his  thoughts 
of  Barbara  seemed  to  drift  into  a  weary  repetition.  It  was 
a  thousand  times  worse  than  the  torments  of  the  damned, 
unless  monotony  is  one  of  those  torments. 

He  tried  to  force  himself  to  think  of  other  things,  saying 
his  thoughts  clearly  in  his  mind,  to  call  up  a  sense  of  his 
next  day's  work.  ...  It  was  useless.  Under  every  explicit 
thought  went  on  the  dull  wondering  dismay  of  unhappiness. 
He  had  no  self-pity :  his  mind  was  too  clear  for  that.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  never  deserved  to  win  that  bat- 
tle. For  it  was  a  battle ;  and  he  knew  that  Barbara  was  his 
superior.  She  had  been  just  splendid.  She  had  been  frank 
and  equal — that  was  the  wonder  of  it !  She  had  been  as 
sincere  as  himself,  and  more  generous  than  he  had  had  any 
right  to  expect.  His  one  stark  inescapable  thought  was  an 
understanding  of  her  generosity. 

Yes,  but  that  was  what  gave  an  air  of  finality  to  the 
disaster. 

He  would  not  yet  reach  back  to  his  own  old  confidence. 
The  victory  and  all  the  glory  were  hers.     She  hadn't  been 

mean :  she  had  been Surely  she  had  risen  to  herself 

just  on  the  instant?  Surely  he  might  suppose  that  he  had 
helped  to  call  out  her  latent  marvellousness?     Amberley 


252  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

was  humbled  before  Barbara,  and  even  triumphant  at  his 
supreme  knowledge  of  her.  Velancourt — Good  God !  The 
man  would  never  understand  that  much.  He  hadn't  got  the 
imagination !  Velancourt  saw  everything  with  his  blind 
emotions.  He  was  an  insensitive  when  it  came  to  actual 
shades  of  spiritual  quality.  He'd  seen  Barbara  as  some- 
thing terrific ;  but  only  in  terms  of  his  own  maudlin  mother- 
wit.  He'd  think  of  her  in  hyperbole ;  but  understand  her — 
never !  He  never  got  near  enough  to  anything !  He  wasn't 
humble  enough  to  see  the  exquisite  gradations  of  beauty  in 
a  woman  like  Barbara.  Hotly,  Amberley  pushed  the  bed- 
clothes away,  lest  they  should  combine  with  his  excitement 
to  stifle  him.  Velancourt  hadn't  got  the  humility  that  wise 
people  called  sense  of  humour !  He  was  a  stumbling  egoist, 
with  a  pictorial  starry  world  good  enough  to  dream  in,  but 
never  good  enough  for  life !  Bring  Velancourt  before  Bar- 
bara, and  he'd  see — as  any  fool  could  see — her  beauty  and 
her  strength ;  but  he  could  not  see  her  quality.  He'd  know 
it  was  there :  he'd  guess  it  must  be  there.  But  he'd  never 
be  able  to  understand  it.  Why,  the  fool  couldn't  even 
understand  his  own  wife ! 

Thereafter,  Amberley's  fever  died  slowly  away,  and  with 
it  his  arrogance.  He  could  not  criticise  Velancourt.  Fools 
would  do  that;  and  he  couldn't  be  one  of  those  to  belittle 
his  friend.  Velancourt  was  his  friend.  But  nobody  ex- 
pected a  man  placed  as  he  was  to  be  fair  to  anybody  alive : 
nobody  expected  him  to  be  even  modest  about  himself. 

Then  there  was  Susie.  Amberley  shrugged,  and  turned 
his  face  to  the  pillow.  There  it  was,  for  all  to  see.  There 
was  the  simple  happiness  of  a  delightful  pair  .  .  .  and 
Barbara  still  stood  before  him  as  the  real  woman,  the  one 
vitally  real  woman  of  his  life.  To  compare  even  Susie  with 
her  was  as  if  one  should  compare  a  freshet  to  a  cascade — 
the  one  gracefully  charming,  the  other  an  irresistible  bril- 
liant torrent  of  living  water. 

As  the  room  became  greyer,  and  the  objects  in  it  dis- 
cernible, Amberley  tried  to  bury  his  burning  head  beneath 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  253 

the  bedclothes  and  to  make  himself  fall  asleep  by  mere  ex- 
ercise of  determination.  But  he  was  still  lying  awake,  with 
his  hot  eyes  staring  at  the  vagueness  of  the  grey  ceiling, 
when  he  heard  Susie's  bedroom  door  open.  It  was  time  to 
get  up,  time  for  the  first  long  day  to  begin  and  to  drag 
wearily  to  its  evening.  A  deep,  involuntary  sigh  broke  from 
him. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
ON   THE   STAIRCASE 


AS,  with  a  feeling  of  dread,  Amberley  entered  Great 
James  Street  that  morning,  he  met  Velancourt.  The 
encounter  was  a  shock  to  him ;  still  more  shocking  was  the 
expression  of  weary  despondency  upon  Velancourt's  face. 
The  sense  that  they  were  both  so  woebegone  made  Amberley 
laugh  rather  ruefully ;  but  however  ludicrous  it  might  seem 
to  him  he  knew  that  there  was  a  more  serious  side  to  the 
matter.  His  natural  robustness  made  him  shirk  any  senti- 
mental feeling — by  which  is  meant  the  glow  of  enthusiasm 
in  which  men  and  women  contemplate  their  own  lovingness, 
generosity,  misfortunes,  and  other  qualities — but  that  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  suppose  Velancourt  insincere. 
He  detained  Velancourt  in  the  passage. 

"Are  you  still  worrying  about  upstairs?"  he  asked — he 
meant  Robinsons. 

Velancourt  started  and  looked  at  him  in  something  like 
horror. 

"A  bit,"  he  said,  sighing  with  relief. 

"Don't.  Try  not  to.  You've  got  till  the  end  of  the  year. 
If  you  like  I'll  speak  to  some  friends  of  mine.  Would  you 
mind  my  doing  that  ?  But  look  here,  old  chap ;  you'll  knock 
yourself  up.    You  don't  want  to  do  that." 

"I  don't  know,"  Velancourt  said,  in  a  shaky  voice. 
"Wouldn't  it  almost  be  better?" 

Amberley  shook  his  head  almost  disgustedly. 

254 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  255 

"Well,  I  suppose  Mrs.  Velancourt  counts  for  something?" 
he  said. 

"Cissie  ?"  Perhaps  it  was  a  new  idea  to  Velancourt.  He 
turned  away,  and  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  office  on  the 
first  floor.  Amberley,  seeing  him  go,  shrugged  and  went  to 
reprove  Hackett  for  spilling  ink  on  the  hearthrug. 


II 

Velancourt  sat  and  thought. 

He  thought  deliberately :  "I'm  very  weak.  I'm  sacrific- 
ing myself,  and  Cissie  too.  Oh,  I  must  buck  up.  It's  no 
good  getting  into  this  bitter  doleful  state.  Oh,  of  course 
it's  easy  for  Amberley  to  talk.  He  doesn't  understand.  But 
it's  time  I  did  something.    What  can  I  do  ?" 

He  had  first  to  get  a  new  situation.  Then  he  had  to  for- 
get Barbara.  It  was  strange  that  he  hadn't  realised  that 
before.  He  had  to  forget  her,  because  there  was  Cissie. 
He  couldn't  realise  Cissie  and  Barbara — it  was  an  indignity 
to  couple  their  names.  No  it  wasn't.  It  was  horrible;  but 
the  indignity  lay  at  his  door.  He  should  never  have  acted 
so  that  their  names  could  be  coupled.  But  what  terrible 
rubbish  that  was — as  though  one  plotted  out  one's  life,  and 
then  managed  it.     Oh,  it  was  unbearable! 

He  sat  long,  with  his  head  on  his  hands,  thinking.  It 
seemed  as  though  everything  he  had  ever  done  had  turned 
out  wrongly.  With  every  desire  to  do  what  was  right,  he 
had  failed.  He  had  failed  at  the  office — so  much  had  been 
revealed  explicitly  to  him.  And  Cissie  had  taken  it  badly 
— more  badly  even  that  he  had  expected.  She  had  been 
thrown  into  a  horrible  panic.  The  recollection  of  her  face 
and  her  tone  of  angry  fear  revolted  him.  It  was  as  though 
all  that  bad  part  of  her  rose  and  became  strident.  Surely 
that  was  wrong  in  a  wife?  Amberley  thought  him  blame- 
worthy :  it  was  clear  that  he  had  blamed  him.  Cissie  had 
probably  lost  all  reserve  and  told  him  all  her  trouble — but 


256  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

what  zvere  her  troubles?  And  what  on  earth  was  the  good 
of  telling  them  to  Amberley?  Amberley  thought  he  had 
treated  Cissie  badly.  Had  he?  And  he'd  meant  to  treat 
her  so  well.  He'd  meant  to  make  her  happy :  he  had 
thought  they  were  both  to  be  so  happy.  .  .  .  Why  was  it 
that  they  were  not? 

When  he  thought  of  that  failure  his  heart  seemed  to  beat 
in  his  throat.  He  must  have  been  in  some  way  brutal.  He'd 
neglected  her,  hadn't  tried  to  understand  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  but 
he  had !  He  knew  what  was  wrong.  In  a  frenzy  he  began 
to  pace  about  the  room.  There  was  the  dreadful  knowledge 
of  their  unsympathy  in  his  mind.  She  didn't  understand 
love.  She  thought  it  was  a  mean  possessiveness,  a  jealous 
partnership  in  secret  conspiracy.  It  was,  to  her,  based  on 
a  horrible  mutual  contempt — the  drawing  away  of  cloaks 
from  one's  own  unworthiness,  and  a  joint  endeavour  to  keep 
other  people  from  guessing  it.  Velancourt  tasted  the  dregs 
of  his  perceptions  then.  He  saw  Cissie  distorted,  a  gro- 
tesque compound  of  every  worst  impulse  that  she  had.  He 
piled  one  upon  the  other,  to  make  an  image  of  loathly  shape. 
Her  secretiveness,  her  assumption  that  he  was  at  heart  much 
less  clean  than  he  pretended,  her  vain  search  for  some  com- 
mon confession  of  mean  feeling,  seemed  to  him  vile  and 
odious.  She  became  a  malign  figure  in  his  frenzy.  He 
could  not  see  her  as  a  struggling  human  being  like  himself : 
suspicion  and  rancour  dominated  his  evil  rage. 

If  she  had  helped  ...  if  she  had  said  to  herself:  "He 
is  my  husband,  worthy  or  unworthy."  But  no !  Her  thought 
was  only  fear  for  herself.  Self,  self,  self !  Now,  in  his 
distress,  she  was  his  worst  enemy,  his  persistent  detractor, 
savage,  unrestrained,  full  of  contempt  for  him  .  .  .  bitter 
with  disappointment.  What  should  he  do ;  what  could  he 
do,  if  she  continued  as  she  had  begun?  He  was  trying,  he 
had  been  trying,  to  get  another  situation.  He  would  re- 
double his  efforts ;  but  with  unselfish  love  to  encourage  him 
how  much  greater  his  hope ! 

The  knowledge  that  she  had  betrayed  him  to  Amberley 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  257 

was  bitter ;  but  the  knowledge  that  she  had  no  faith  in  him 
was  more  bitter  still.  She  didn't  believe  in  him.  He  almost 
thought  she  imagined  him  capable  of  lying  to  her.  Velan- 
court  knew  he  was  not  a  liar.  She  had  cross-examined  him 
as  though  he  had  been  a  thief.  He  could  not  forgive  her 
that.  It  was  so  ungenerous,  so  absolutely  false  to  any 
knowledge  he  had  of  himself.  He  knew  some  of  the  faults 
which  must  be  too  evident :  he  knew  them  as  well  as  she 
could  know  them — they  were  selfishness,  unpractical  use- 
lessness,  difficulty  of  temper — but  nobody  had  ever  for  a 
moment  questioned  his  honour.  It  had  been  left  to  his  wife 
to  do  that!  How  could  love  descend  to  such  meanness? 
It  was  impossible.  She  could  never  have  loved  him.  She 
must  hate  him.  He  was  blind  in  his  anger  to  her  suspicious- 
ness. 

Had  he  no  friend?  Amberley,  clearly,  was  alienated. 
His  sensitiveness  rebelled  vehemently  against  the  cordial 
afTection  that  Amberley  had  shown  when  they  met.  He 
thought  Amberley's  consideration  was  contempt.  He  could 
not  bear  contempt.  It  made  him  feel  so  strongly  that  he 
feared  he  would  go  mad.  Was  he  not  mad  now?  Had 
anything  really  happened  ?  Was  it  not  all  a  horrible  imag- 
ining? 

Velancourt  smiled  as  he  had  never  done  before,  with  a 
malicious  bitterness.  He  had  no  real  doubt  of  his  complete 
sanity,  or  if  he  had  he  knew  quite  well  that  his  arrival  home 
would  reassure  him.  It  was  no  dream,  but  a  reality.  He 
would  find  Cissie  there.  A  shudder  shook  his  whole  body 
at  the  thought  of  her. 

Ill 

Supposing  he  were  dead?  Oh,  that  was  unthinkable. 
There  was  to  be  no  help  for  him  from  outside.  He  must 
stand  alone.  He  had  always  been  alone.  Why,  then, 
should  he  now  look  for  some  assistance,  at  a  time  when 
even  friends  were  known  to  avert  their  heads?     He  must 


258  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

get  cooler,  and  think  what  was  to  be  done.  He  had  no 
money :  he  owed  nearly  fifty  pounds  for  furniture :  Cissie 
was  dependent  on  him.  In  a  month  he  would  be  out  of 
employment — in  mid-winter.  And  he  did  not  dare  to  think 
of  Barbara  Gretton.  He  tried  even  to  think  quietly  of 
her;  but  the  stirring  of  passionate  emotion  which  her  image 
called  up  made  his  head  reel,  until  he  thought  he  really 
was  mad. 

"Wait  a  minute  .  .  .  wait  a  minute,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. "I  must  be  quite  clear  in  my  mind.  Cissie  hates  me ; 
Amberley  despises  me;  Barbara  .  .  .  doesn't  care  that!" 
He  snapped  his  fingers.  "If  Cissie  loved  me  better  than 
herself" — he  spoke  with  a  sort  of  furious  calmness — "I 
could  get  through.  It  only  means  confidence.  .  .  .  Why 
is  it  I'm  so  dependent  on  others  ?  Oh,  I'm  no  good.  There's 
nothing  to  do.  Nothing  on  earth  to  do !  I've  been  mad, 
and  I  am  mad.  And  I've  got  to  get  through  this.  I  can 
get  through  it — or  I  could,  if  only  Cissie  could  be  kept 
quiet.  There's  nowhere  she  could  go.  She'll  always  be  at 
home,  until  I  shall  dread  going  home  and  telling  her  that 
I've  got  nothing.    Unless  I  get  something !" 

Well,  that  was  a  saving  thought.  Amberley  had  said  that 
he  would  speak  to  some  friends.  .  .  .  Amberley  was  a 
trump!  He'd  never  thanked  him.  He'd  run  down  and 
thank  him  now.  No — not  yet.  At  lunch-time  he  would  go 
down.  .  .  . 

His  moods  alternated,  his  thoughts  were  repeated,  and 
the  time  passed.  What  little  work  he  had  to  do  lay  before 
him  still.  Distantly  the  Holborn  Town  Hall  clock  chimed 
an  hour.  He  listened  for  the  strokes.  There  was  only  one 
stroke.  It  was  one  o'clock.  Amberley  would  be  gone  to 
lunch.  He  must  finish  his  work.  Feverishly  he  looked  at 
his  papers,  without  being  able  to  understand  what  they 
were  about ;  and  then  he  took  his  hat,  and  went  out,  locking 
the  door  behind  him.  Then  his  heart  gave  a  bound,  for 
Barbara  Gretton  was  coming  up  the  stairs  towards  him. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  259 


IV 

How  beautiful  she  looked !  It  was  Velancourt's  first 
thought.  He  thought  she  had  never  been  so  beautiful.  She 
seemed  graver  than  usual,  and  even  more  kind.  But  how 
beautiful.  Even  when  she  had  reached  his  side,  and  stood 
almost  as  tall  as  himself,  Velancourt  was  still  in  a  marvel 
at  her  beauty. 

Barbara  smiled  at  him,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but  for 
his  sudden  exclamation. 

"You  .  .  .  haven't  seen  .  .  .  Amberley!"  he  said,  dash- 
ing at  last  at  the  first  thinkable  formula  of  words. 

Now  that  she  was  on  the  landing  he  could  hardly  see  her 
face,  for  she  was  in  shadow. 

"No,"  said  Barbara.  "Does  he  want  to  see  me?"  Velan- 
court felt  unforgivably  stupid. 

"I  meant,"  he  stammered,  "I  meant  ...  I  wanted  to  see 
him  myself.  He  offered  .  .  .  offered  to  help  me.  You 
know  I  shall  be  leaving  at  the  end  of  the  year." 

"Leaving?  I  didn't  know."  Barbara  turned  again.  "I'm 
very  sorry  indeed." 

"You're  really  sorry?  Really?"  he  asked,  eagerly.  She 
laughed  a  little. 

"That  was  what  I  said.  I  meant  it.  But  perhaps  you 
won't  be  far  away?" 

He  stared  at  her,  uncomprehending.    Then : 

"I  may  be  dead,"  he  said,  in  a  sudden  voice.  She  could 
not  understand  Velancourt  saying  such  a  thing,  and  waited, 
her  foot  withdrawn  from  the  next  stair.  It  seemed  so 
meaningless. 

"I  hope  not,"  she  ventured  at  last.  "That  seems  a  very 
silly  idea." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  simply  stupid,"  Velancourt  began,  hur- 
riedly. "I  oughtn't  to  have  said  that.  But  I  didn't  expect 
to  meet  you.    I'm  afraid  I'm  .  .  .  Please  forgive  me." 


26o  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Barbara  smiled  at  him,  and  began  to  ascend  to  the  next 
flight. 

"Miss  Gretton  .  .  .  Please  forgive  me." 

"All  right,"  she  said,  stopping  and  speaking  over  her 
shoulder.  "But  it  was  very  silly.  Wherever  you  are,  I 
hope  you'll  still  come  and  see  us.  I  suppose  you'll  be  in 
this  neighbourhood?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  don't  understand.  It's  not  that  I've 
got  something  else  to  do.  The  firm's  being  wound  up."  He 
looked  desperately  at  her. 

"Really?  I'm  very  sorry.  I  didn't  realise  that.  I  think 
it's  for  you  to  forgive  me.  But  of  course  you'll  have  no 
difficulty  .  .  ."  She  had  come  down  a  stair,  and  their  faces 
were  almost  on  a  level.  "Was  it  in  that  that  Mr.  Amberley 
was  going  to  help  you?" 

He  knew  that  the  expression  in  her  eyes  changed:  she 
stood  now  where  the  light  fell  upon  her  face.  She  had  deep 
grey  eyes,  as  wonderful  as  the  sea.  He  worshipped  her.  A 
new  courage  was  born  in  him. 

"He  thought  he  could."    The  words  would  hardly  come. 

"He's  a  good  friend,"  Barbara  said,  in  a  warm  voice.  "I 
hope  he'll  be  able  to  help.     Though  in  any  case  .  .  ." 

"You've  made  me  feel  tremendous,"  Velancourt  said,  im- 
pulsively. "As  though  you'd  blessed  me."  His  face  shone 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  stairs ;  his  lips  were  parted,  and  his 
head  thrown  back  in  fresh  courage. 

"Now  I'm  afraid  you're  being  very  silly  indeed,"  Bar- 
bara admonished.  "You  go  to  Mr.  Amberley.  He's  of 
practical  use.    I  can  only  wish  you  well.    Good-bye." 

She  was  going  up  the  stairs  again  when  Amberley  came 
racing  up  from  below.  He  pulled  up  on  seeing  Barbara, 
and  took  his  hat  off  without  speaking.  Barbara  didn't  stop, 
but  she  did  not  avoid  him,  and  when  she  was  out  of  sight 
of  him,  she  felt  trembling  and  unhappy.  It  was  just  noth- 
ing at  all,  a  sort  of  unspoken  greeting  between  them ;  but  it 
had  moved  her  to  a  sense  of  his  unflinching  pluck. 

"Look  here,  come  to  lunch  with  me,"  Amberley  said  to 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  261 

Velancourt,  in  a  cool  stiff  voice.  It  fell  with  quite  an  odd 
sound,  reminding  both  of  them  that  they  had  waited  to  hear 
the  closing  click  of  the  upper  door.  They  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  common  coldness  of  scrutiny,  until  Amberley 
took  Velancourt's  arm;  whereupon  they  descended  the 
stairs  together,  and  went  out  into  the  busy  streets. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 
THE   ANALYST 


STILL  with  his  arm  linked  in  Velancourt's,  Amberley  led 
the  way  to  the  Tarratonga  Tea  Shop  where  he  gen- 
erally had  his  meals.  For  the  purpose  of  a  quiet  chat  he 
took  his  friend  to  the  smoking-room,  and  found  a  cush- 
ioned seat  in  a  corner.  Because  he  was  a  friend  of  hers, 
Dolly,  the  rather  angular  but  amiable  waitress,  served  them 
with  great  rapidity;  and  they  ate  side  by  side — like  cats 
out  of  the  same  dish,  as  Amberley  thought.  Then  Amberley 
began  with  an  assumed  casualness  to  discover  exactly  how 
far  Velancourt  was  aware  of  his  own  business,  and  how 
far  his  knowledge  needed  revision. 

"Have  you  got  any  plans  at  all?"  he  asked.  "I  mean, 
after  leaving  Robinsons'." 

Velancourt  shook  his  head.  He  had  not  spoken  all  the 
way  from  Great  James  Street,  and  was  sitting  with  a  look 
of  strained  rebelliousness  upon  his  face,  as  though  he  could 
hardly  breathe.  Amberley  went  on  eating,  rather  stolidly, 
so  that  at  last  Velancourt  felt  bound  to  speak. 

"You  said  something  .  .  ."  he  hesitatingly  began. 

"Well,  would  you  care  for  that?  I  don't  know  if  it 
would  come  to  anything.  I  have  a  friend,  an  old  friend 
who  used  to  live  in  London,  who  went  to  Bath  to  live.  He 
says  Bath's  waking  up ;  and  he  once  asked  me  if  there  was 
any  chance  of  my  leaving  London,  and  going  there.  He's 
a  solicitor.     Now,  you  come  from  that  part — Bath's  very 

262 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  263 

near  your  native  place,  isn't  it  ?  I  thought  that  if  you  could 
get  there  at  an  improving  screw  you'd  live  cheaper,  be  in 
more  congenial  surroundings,  and  get  on  better.  You're  not 
tied  to  London?" 

Velancourt  felt  breathless.  For  a  moment  his  gratitude 
was  intense. 

"Oh,  if  you  could!"  he  cried. 

"D'you  think  your  wife  would  mind?" 

Velancourt  looked  steadfastly  at  his  plate.  He  had  for- 
gotten Cissie.  Amberley,  seeing  his  expression,  felt  sorry 
for  him ;  but  he  quickly  turned  away  again,  in  case  Velan- 
court should  think  him  disposed  to  pry. 

"It's  rather  .  .  .  hard  to  say,"  Adrian  managed  at  length 
to  stammer.  He  looked  sharply  up,  with  an  agonised  desire 
to  tell  Amberley  at  least  something  of  his  state.     "It  isn't 

as  though "    He  checked  himself,  and  was  again  silent 

from  a  forced  pride.  "She  hasn't  many  friends  now — she 
couldn't  be  worse  off  there.  Amberley,  how  do  people  get 
to  make  friends — I  mean,  young  married  women  ?" 

"I  tell  you  what.  I  might  write  to  my  friend.  Would 
you  like  that?" 

"Awfully." 

"Right.  Well,  I  don't  know  how  friends  are  made — by 
young  women.  With  men  it's  generally  a  sort  of  slow  slid- 
ing intimacy,  and  there  comes  a  time  when  one  man  (the 
stronger,  or  the  more  fearful)  has  to  decide  whether  it's 
going  any  further.  It's  strange,  that.  Personally,  I  don't 
regard  any  man  as  my  friend  unless  he's  my  superior  in 
something  at  least." 

Velancourt  was  astonished  at  such  a  tone  from  Amber- 
ley.   He  had  thought  him  so  self-content. 

"I  shouldn't  have  expected  that !"  he  said,  with  a  quick, 
interested  glance.  "From  you.  You  surely  .  .  ."  He 
stopped,  and  coloured. 

"Certainly,"  Amberley  assured  him.  "I  think  you  my 
superior." 


264  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"I?  How  can  that  be?"  Velancourt  asked.  But  he  was 
pleased  and  proud. 

"You  must  justify  yourself,"  retorted  Amberley.  "By 
bucking  up." 

"I  am.  ...  I  feel  different.  M-Miss  Gretton  was  so 
kind."  He  faltered  over  the  name,  and  Amberley's  teeth 
clenched.  "And  now,  you,"  Velancourt  concluded,  in  a 
stammering  boyishness. 

"Right.  I'll  write  to  Bath.  My  friend's  name  is  Ros- 
kins,  and  he's  a  tremendously  good  chap.  If  he  can  do  any- 
thing I  know  he  will.  Nonsense — grateful  be  skittled. 
You'd  be  better  out  of  London." 

Velancourt  gave  a  great  start.  He  realised  abruptly  what 
that  meant.  If  he  were  all  those  miles  away  he  would  be 
entirely  cut  off  from  Barbara.  Wasn't  that  what  he  wanted  ? 
But  why  did  Amberley  think  he'd  be  better  away  ?  A  quick 
fear  came  to  him.  Had  he  betrayed  himself?  Could  he 
have  done  that?  Oh,  he  must — Amberley  must  have  seen 
that  evening.  Amberley  hadn't  ridiculed  him;  but  he'd 
seen,  he'd  put  the  worst  construction,  the  truest  (as  he  now 
saw),  upon  the  sudden  flight  from  Highgate.  But  an  anger 
rose  in  him  that  Amberley  could  be  so  officious.  What 
business  could  it  be  of  Amberley's?  It  was  his  own  busi- 
ness. This  thing  of  all  others  was  his  own,  and  none  should 
interfere.    Amberley  was  not  to  play  guide  to  his  emotions ! 

"Oh,"  he  said,  in  a  quivering  voice.  "I'm  not  sure  that 
I  want  to  leave  London.  I  don't  want  .  .  ."  His  voice 
failed,  his  cheeks  were  flushed.  Inarticulate,  he  looked  at 
Amberley,  to  meet  the  cool  hazel  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with 
such  understanding  that  he  could  not  continue  at  all. 

"You  want  a  new  situation,  and  a  comfortable  one.  A 
country  solicitor  is  always  glad  to  have  a  clerk  with  Lon- 
don experience,"  Amberley's  persuasive  voice  went  on. 
"You  see  you've  got  a  better  chance  of  getting  a  good  coun- 
try job  than  its  equivalent  in  London.  You'd  have  more 
time  there,  and  on  the  whole  a  less  exacting  experience. 
And  in  the  country  you'd  have  all  the  natural  beauties  you 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  265 

so  wish  to  have.  Bath  is  a  beautiful  place,  with  associa- 
tions— personally,  I  think  Bath  a  shabby  place,  but  it  has 
great  beauties — and  its  surroundings  are  wonderful.  The 
Avon  Valley " 

Velancourt  interrupted  him  with  a  savage  despair.  His 
face  had  paled,  so  deeply  was  he  moved. 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  why  do  you  so  much  want  to  get  me  away 
from  London?"  he  demanded. 


II 

They  sat  right  in  the  corner  of  the  large  smoking-room. 
Elsewhere  the  domino-players  amused  themselves  and  reg- 
istered points  in  pencil  on  the  marble-topped  tables.  One 
portentous  pale  man  with  an  unhealthy  face  and  straggling 
beard  played  chess  with  a  youth,  whom  he  was  contriving 
to  beat,  as  he  did  every  day.  Others  there  were  who  had 
propped  papers  or  books  against  the  cruet  or  the  sugar- 
basin,  and  were  reading  as  they  ate.  But  they  were  all  far 
away,  removed  from  Amberley  and  Velancourt  by  a  long 
stretch  of  unoccupied  tables. 

Amberley  seemed  to  be  abstractedly  watching  the  bearded 
chess-player.  Velancourt,  turning  impatiently  towards  him, 
was  so  close  that  he  could  see  the  fine  dark  hair  upon  Am- 
berley's  cheeks,  a  soft  down  not  reached  by  the  razor.  He 
could  see  the  firm  line  of  the  mouth,  and  Amberley's  rather 
deep-set  eyes.  And  the  few  white  hairs  just  above  Amber- 
ley's  ear.  But  being  so  close,  he  was  able  actually  to 
recognise  the  air  of  strength  in  Amberley's  head.  It  seemed 
larger  than  he  had  thought :  Amberley  himself  seemed  big- 
ger. But  his  face  was  almost  grey,  too.  Somehow  Velan- 
court, at  a  white  heat  of  tension  though  he  was,  saw  Amber- 
ley for  the  first  time.  He  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  moved 
in  his  seat.  Every  nerve  seemed  to  be  on  edge ;  and  his 
long  thin  hands  were  twisting  together  until  they  hurt  him. 


266  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

The  silence  itself,  broken  afar  by  the  sharp  noise  of  click- 
ing dominoes  and  plates,  and  the  girls  calling  orders  to 
those  behind  a  counter,  was  intolerable.  Again  he  opened 
his  mouth,  and  closed  it — he  couldn't  speak  until  his  question 
was  answered. 

"Is  there  any  reason  I  might  have,  except  a  desire  to 
help  you?"  Amberley  asked  slowly.  Velancourt  drew  a 
quick  breath,  and  swayed  in  his  seat. 


Ill 

For  quite  a  minute  Velancourt  could  not  speak  at  all. 
He  had  put  down  his  knife  and  fork. 

"What  did  you  mean  just  then?"  he  asked,  in  a  faint 
voice.  It  was  no  good  pretending  that  he  had  not  read  a 
warning  in  Amberley's  voice.  It  was  no  good  pretending 
anything  to  Amberley,  after  this. 

"Look  here,  old  chap,"  Amberley  said,  suddenly.  "I'm 
not  playing  a  game ;  but  trying  to  help  you.  I  want  to  help 
you ;  but  if  I  can  do  that  best  by  not  helping  you,  then  I'm 
content.  I  don't  want  to  be  officious ;  and  I'm  not  going  to 
say  anything  more.  I'll  write  to  my  Bath  friend  and  tell 
you  what  he  says.  Or  there's  a  friend  of  mine  in  a  firm  of 
educational  publishers  in  London  who  might  do  something. 
But  don't  let  me  seem  to  be  trying  to  do  anything  for  you. 
Whatever  is  done,  you'll  do  yourself." 

Velancourt  listened  eagerly,  nodding  once  or  twice,  and 
then  thinking. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  want  to 
show  that  I  understand." 

"There's  no  need,"  Amberley  put  in,  swiftly.  "I'm  sure 
of  that." 

"Is  it  something  Cissie's  said  to  you?"  Velancourt  was 
forced  out  into  the  open.  Amberley's  lids  were  lowered. 
He  had  not  thought  out  any  plan ;  and  he  was  in  something 
of  a  fix. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  267 

"I  thought  perhaps  some  of  her  difficulties  could  be 
solved,"  he  said.    "There  was  that,  certainly." 

"Amberley,  I  wish  you'd  be  frank.  I'm  nearly  mad.  You 
know  how  irritable  I  am.  I  feel  as  though  I  can't  bear 
anything  much  longer."  Velancourt  spoke  in  a  strained, 
urgent,  impulsive  voice  that  showed  how  deeply  he  was  ex- 
cited ;  and  Amberley  looked  round  at  him  for  the  first  time. 
"Of  course,  there  are  a  thousand  things  we  neither  of  us 
can  say;  but  I  think  I  trust  you  at  this  moment.  I  mean, 
I  believe  you're  my  friend.  I'm  in  an  awful  difficulty." 
He  stopped.  At  each  breathless  sentence  he  had  wished  to 
unspeak  what  he  had  said;  but  some  other,  more  powerful, 
feeling  strove  him  on  to  what  he  felt  was  indiscretion  upon 
indiscretion. 

"Mrs.  Velancourt  .  .  ."  Amberley  hesitated.  What  was 
his  friendship  worth  without  candour?  If  he  expurgated 
his  thoughts,  that  gave  the  lie  to  his  assertion  that  he 
thought  Velancourt  his  superior.  He  resumed :  "She  had 
some  idea  that  you  might  have  talked  to  me  about  things 
you  don't  mention  to  her.  You  understand  that  she's  rather 
bewildered  about  you.  I  explained  that  we  didn't  talk  about 
our  affairs ;  but  about  our  less  personal  relations.  I  think 
she  feels  she  hasn't  got  your  confidence.  You  really  must 
forgive  me,  old  chap — Mrs.  Velancourt  hasn't  much  sym- 
pathy with  abstract  things.  She's  interested  only  in  the 
concrete.  And  the  concrete,  to  her,  is  yourself,  and  your 
feeling  for  her.  They're  very  important.  To  an  outsider, 
it's  just  possible  to  have  .  .  .  some  .  .  .  some  feeling,  as 
you  might  say,  for  both  sides  of  a  .  .  .  Velancourt,  you 
won't  be  .  .  .  well,  of  a  dilemma.  Your  wife  has,  accord- 
ing .  .  .  No,  not  that.  She  really  prizes  you  above  every- 
thing— your  comfort,  your  well-being.  But  she's  not  on 
intellectual  terms  with  you.    She  seems  really  to  feel  .  .  ." 

Amberley  broke  off.  It  was  impossible.  He  could  not 
say  the  true  things  without  being  in  some  way  abominable. 
Velancourt  sat  perfectly  still,  listening  with  an  almost 
frantic  earnestness. 


268  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"You  do  see  that  I  can't  say  .  .  ."  Amberley  resumed. 
"Now,  you  are  very  greatly  moved  by  things  outside  Airs. 
Velancourt's  experience.  But  you're  intolerant.  You've 
made  up  your  mind  that  you  can't  go  back  from  your  own 
position.  You'll  find  you've  got  to.  I  don't  care  what 
woman  you  married,  you'd  find  a  compromise  inevitable. 
No  man  on  earth  when  he  marries  escapes  a  compromise. 
I  think  no  woman,  either.  It's  very  well  for  you  and  me 
to  talk,  and  to  discuss  things,  and  to  feel  that  we  under- 
stand one  another.  As  soon  as  we're  excited  we  see  how 
much  bound  up  in  all  our  feelings  are  the  memories  of  old 
lesions.  You  begin  to  feel  how  little  I  understand  you; 
I  to  feel  how  you  misjudge  me.  Yet  we're  both  men,  we're 
both  honest,  and  scrupulous." 

Velancourt  nodded.  Colour  was  again  faintly  tinging 
his  cheeks. 

"You  can  see  how  the  case  is  in  marriage.  There  are  a 
thousand  more  difficulties  in  every  day — moods  and  feel- 
ings. Real  lovers  admit  them,  and  get  over  them ;  but  many 
of  them  can't  get  on  terms,  as  it  were.  There  are  two 
languages.  I  suspect  that  women  think  they  make  all  the 
silent  reservations;  and  that  men  do  it  more  successfully. 
That  may  be  my  bias.  But  unless  you  have  a  real  persis- 
tent endeavour  on  both  sides  misunderstandings  arise 

You  see  how  authoritative  I  am !"  He  checked  himself  for 
a  moment,  with  a  strained  smile  on  his  drawn  face.  "I 
believe  that  education,  or  position,  or  whatever  it  is,  doesn't 
in  the  least  matter,  as  long  as  there's  honesty  on  both  sides. 
But  it  takes  a  clever  woman  to  be  honest;  and  then  it's 
rather  a  bore  to  her.  She  can  generally  get  what  she  wants 
more  easily  by  other  means.  So  she  uses  them.  Just  as 
the  modern  suffragist  really  wants  to  sterilise  men  arti- 
ficially, and  clamours  about  economic  conditions,  and  house- 
holding,  and  so  on.  It's  not  that  she  wants  power  to  help 
govern  the  state :  it's  that  she  wants  power  to  exert  repres- 
sion upon  men.  She's  not  interested  in  an  abstract  idea  of 
justice;  she's  interested  in  imposing  artificial  chastity  upon 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  269 

men  because  she  personally  is  rather  sexless.  Nine-tenths 
of  the  suffragists  don't  know  it.  They're  whirled  into  the 
movement  by  all  sorts  of  impulses ;  but  the  leaders  are  out 
to  sterilise  the  race.  That's  why  they're  angry,  and  ob- 
scene. .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I've  wandered  off  the  point.  Well, 
I'm  sorry  for  that.  I  think  you're  frightened  of  yielding 
your  position  ;  and  I  don't  think  ...  I  don't  think  any  wife 
on  earth  would  satisfy  you,  or  be  satisfied  with  you.  Simply 
because  you're  inexperienced.  You're  fastidious.  If  you 
had  more  sympathy  with — for  example,  Mrs.  Velancourt — 
you'd  be  happier.  You're  not  happy ;  you're  trying  to  find 
happiness.  Nobody  ever  gets  happy  that  way.  If  you  try 
to  get  hold  of  Mrs.  Velancourt's  point  of  view  .  .  .  That'll 
make  her  happy.  She'll  try  to  get  hold  of  your  point  of 
view.  And  as  soon  as  there's  a  Master  or  Miss  Velancourt 
you'll  notice  great  changes.  Mrs.  Velancourt  is  a  born 
mother :  it'll  make  her  a  new  and  wonderful  creature  .  .  ." 

Amberley  saw  Velancourt  flush  a  deep  red. 

"How  little  you  understand !"  said  Velancourt.  "I  mean, 
about  me.     If  you  only  knew!" 

"I  do  know,"  explained  Amberley.  "I  haven't  got  to 
that  yet." 

IV 

"You  want  to  live  quietly  and  serenely  somewhere;  and 
yet  you  can't  do  that  because  you  haven't  got  any  money. 
Also,  you  haven't  got  any  contentment.  You're  excited. 
You're  always  excited.  Excitement  is  life  to  you.  It  used 
to  be  nervous  stimulation  of  your  sense  of  beauty ;  now  you 
seem  to  have  crowding  on  you  many  things  you're  afraid 
of.  You're  afraid  of  money,  for  one  thing.  Losing  a  job 
means  losing  your  income.  You're  frightened  that  you'll 
starve.  You're  frightened  you'll  have  no  home  and  no  fur- 
niture. How  absurd !  You've  got  one  friend — you've  got 
me.  If  you're  ever  so  little  afraid,  your  wife  will  be  afraid. 
If  you  haven't  got  confidence  in  yourself,  how  can  you  ex- 


270  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

pect  her  to  have  confidence  in  you?  You  can't  expect  it. 
She'd  be  superhuman ;  she'd  be " 

Velancourt  thought  to  himself :  "He  doesn't  know.  Bar- 
bara would  so  believe  in  me  that  she'd  make  me  believe  in 
myself."    Aloud,  he  said : 

"You're  arguing  to  fit  the  case — being  optimistic." 

"Suppose  I  am?  You've  got  to  believe  in  your  power 
to  walk  in  and  get  a  job  anywhere  to-morrow.  You've  got 
to  recognise  that  you,  as  a  human  being,  are  of  more  sig- 
nificance than  any  man  can  realise.  It's  only  vanity  that 
makes  people  timid.  If  you  once  get  it  fixed  in  your  mind 
that  you're  a  man,  you'll  find  people  tumbling  over  them- 
selves to  proclaim  it." 

"How  easy  it  is  to  theorise,"  Velancourt  interrupted. 
"You  don't  allow  anything  at  all  for  temperament.  You 
think " 

"Don't  be  arrogant.  It's  a  vice.  You're  thinking  to 
yourself  that  you  can't  effect  a  mutual  understanding  with 
Mrs.  Velancourt;  you're  thinking  that  you're  already  out 
of  a  job,  which  is  not  the  case;  you're  prepared  for  any 
disaster;  you're  thinking  of  bailiffs  and  starvation  before 
they're  in  the  neighbourhood " 

"Yes,  but " 

"And  you're  half-frantic,  and  half-swollen  with  pride  be- 
cause,"— Amberley's  voice  suddenly  grew  husky  and  un- 
steady— "because  you've  achieved  the  crowning  indiscre- 
tion of  an  excitable  young  man.  There's  no  excuse  for 
that.  It's  simply  due  to  a  wandering  damnable  self-in- 
dulgence." 

Velancourt  paled.  Then  he  started  to  his  feet,  sweeping 
his  plate  aside  with  a  convulsive  movement. 

"Oh,  this  is  too  much!"  he  said,  passionately.  "I  can't 
let  you " 

"Sit  down ;  and  don't  be  a  fool.  I  warn  you  that  you're 
simply " 

"Please!"  Velancourt  walked,  erect  and  trembling,  to 
the  waitress,  and  then  went  out  of  the  Tarratonga.    He  left 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  271 

Amberley  sitting  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  face  haggard. 
Amberley's  heart  seemed  to  be  beating  in  his  throat.  He 
had  never  been  so  unhappy,  so  cruelly  angry.  For  a  moment 
he  felt  as  though  he  could  have  killed  Velancourt. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 
REACTION 


AMBERLEY  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  office,  when 
he  met  Barbara,  who  was  walking  in  the  opposite 
direction,  back  to  Arundel  Street.  The  manner  of  their  en- 
counter was  curiously  natural,  for  both  stopped  as  if  it  were 
a  matter  of  course  that  they  should  do  so.  Neither  was 
confused. 

"Have  you  quarrelled  with  Mr.  Velancourt?"  Barbara 
asked.  "I've  just  seen  him.  He  didn't  notice  me:  he  was 
in  too  great  a  hurry,  and  very  excited." 

"I'm  ashamed,"  Amberley  said.    "I  lost  my  temper." 

"Tell  me  .  .  .  walk  a  little  way  with  me." 

"I'll  do  that.    But  I  can't  tell  you." 

"I  thought,"  began  Barbara.  "I  seemed  to  think  you 
trusted  me." 

"Entirely,"  he  said,  walking  beside  her.  "But  it's  Velan- 
court's  quarrel." 

"Oh."  They  did  not  discuss  that  any  further ;  but  went 
through  the  narrow  court  where  Barbara  had  seen  Velan- 
court buying  the  book.  "Did  you  ever  read  Fenelon's  Ex- 
istence of  God?" 

"Can't  say  that  I  ever  did.    Why?" 

"I  met  Mr.  Velancourt  buying  it  here  the  other  day." 

Amberley  gave  an  uncontrollable  nervous  laugh. 

"Splendid !"  he  said.  "I  can  imagine  it."  Then :  "Has 
Ernest  made  the  great  announcement  ?" 

272 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  273 

"At  breakfast  .  .  .  very  casually.  Has  Susan,  then?  Of 
course,  she  must  have." 

"She  couldn't  wait  until  breakfast." 

"And  your  mother's  pleased?" 

"I  heard  last  night:  Susan  was  agitatedly  waiting  for 
mother  to  get  up  when  I  left  home." 

"They're  children — both  of  them."  Barbara  felt  for  the 
first  time  since  their  meeting  shy  and  constrained.  She  al- 
most hurried.  "It's  very  jolly  to  see  them  so  happy.  I 
think  they  zvill  be,  don't  you  ?" 

Amberley  agreed.  They  were  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
and  kept  straight  along,  for  Barbara  always  went  through 
the  gardens  beside  the  Law  Courts  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  They  could  see  people  sitting  round  the  bandstand  in 
the  "Fields,"  some  of  them  munching  out  of  paper  bags, 
some  of  them  reading,  a  number  of  very  shabby  people  sit- 
ting still,  half  asleep. 

"I  suppose  Ernest  will  come  to  Highgate  to-night?"  Am- 
berley said,  idly. 

"Expect  so." 

"I  must  buy  mother  a  copy  of  The  Shadow  of  Ash- 
lydyat"  he  added,  as  an  afterthought.  "She'll  be  delighted. 
D 'you  know  we  sometimes  feel  tremendously  grateful  to 
Mrs.  Henry  Wood  for  being  such  a  prolific  writer.  What's 
the  phrase?  'A  tale  that  keeps  old  ladies  in  the  chimney 
corner'  ?" 

Barbara  laughed,  recognising  the  perversion  of  a  motto 
used  by  a  popular  series.  Somehow  all  their  talk  was  some- 
thing quite  apart  from  their  feelings.  It  was  not  dishonest ; 
but  it  was  a  sort  of  safe  road  for  both  to  tread.  It  was 
like  a  perfectly  recognisable  convention,  that  deceived 
neither  and  yet  was  gratefully  utilised  by  both. 

II 

They  had  come  out  into  Carey  Street,  and  saw  the  gar- 
dens before  them  in  a  blaze  of  autumnal  sunshine.     The 


274  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

grass  was  quite  green,  with  here  and  there  a  hint  of  brown ; 
and  the  flower  beds  were  at  this  time  unimpressive.  Many 
people  trod  the  broad  path.  Ahead  they  could  see  St.  Clem- 
ent Danes,  flashing  back  the  pale  sunlight  that  played  upon 
it ;  and  on  either  side  of  the  church  were  many-hued 
vehicles,  passing  at  great  speed.  They  were  right  above 
the  road.  A  little  to  the  right  of  St.  Clement  Danes  was 
Arundel  Street,  down  which  Barbara  knew  she  would  pres- 
ently catch  a  glimpse  of  the  dark  Thames  waters.  She 
could  not  help  feeling  a  new  quietude  stealing  upon  her  at 
the  contemplation  of  these  familiar  things  with  Amberley 
at  her  side.  He  was  not  coming  any  further,  and  their 
parting  must  be  brief ;  yet  she  did  not  want  him  to  go 
without  knowing  that,  while  she  could  never  think  of  mar- 
rying him,  she  liked  to  be  with  him,  liked  to  feel  that  their 
eyes  saw  the  same  things,  and  their  thoughts  were  started 
by  the  same  objects  passing  so  rapidly  before  them. 

As  Amberley  raised  his  hat  she  could  not  help  blurting 
out  her  kindness. 

"I'm  glad  you  came  with  me,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you,"  was  all  Amberley  answered ;  but  she  saw 
his  face  brighten.  Then  she  hurried  away,  for  she  saw  the 
golden  hands  of  the  clock  within  sight  nearly  at  a  quarter- 
past  two.  Before  she  reached  the  Strand  the  clock  at  the 
Law  Courts  struck  the  quarter.  She  could  not  run,  in  case 
he  was  still  looking  after  her ;  but  she  felt  as  though  it  was 
strangely  pleasant  to  know  that  an  honest  man  loved  her. 
Just  as  Amberley  was  very  happily  moved  by  the  thought 
that  Barbara  should  have  allowed  him  to  walk  by  her  side 
for  that  short  distance. 

On  his  return  journey  Amberley  hardly  saw  the  streets 
and  the  people:  he  was  seeing  the  brown-coated  figure 
walking  through  the  gardens,  and  he  was  seeing  Velan- 
court's  sudden  departure  from  the  Tarratonga.  His  anger 
was  over,  dismissed  from  his  mind.  His  jealousy  was 
gone.  He  was  only  sorry  now  to  have  hurt  Velancourt. 
The  role  of  the  candid  friend  did  not  suit  him;  he  always 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  275 

forgot  that  what  was  quite  permissible  in  self-communion 
assumed  an  unnatural  harshness  when  spoken,  lacking  as  it 
was  all  those  essential  shades  of  mental  association  which 
made  it  at  home  in  his  own  mind.  One  might  be  as  wise  as 
Solomon,  and  as  kind  as  Mrs.  Gretton;  but  one's  wisdom 
should  be  restricted  to  general  propositions.  Particular 
facts,  emphasized  with  candour,  were  sharp  instruments. 

"Yes,  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  have  hurt  him,"  Amberley 
said.  "But  I've  given  him  something  to  think  about.  The 
man's  blind!" 

Nevertheless,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  apologise  to  Velan- 
court.  He  did  not  excuse  himself  on  the  ground  of  his 
own  strained  nerves.  He  knew  that  he  "ought  not  to  have 
done  it."    That  was  punishment  enough. 


Ill 

True  to  his  last  inclination,  Amberley  went  rather 
courageously  up  to  the  first  floor,  and  knocked  at  the  outer 
door  of  Robinsons'  office.  There  was  no  response.  He 
knocked  again.  Then  he  tried  the  handle.  The  door  was 
locked. 

"Strange!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Not  back?"  He  could 
see  that  there  was  no  key  in  the  keyhole  from  the  other 
side.    The  office  must  be  empty. 

He  was  going  down  the  stairs  as  an  old  man  was  com- 
ing up.  The  old  man  was  well-dressed,  and  his  face  was 
easily  recognisable  as  that  of  a  solicitor.  It  was  old  Seares, 
as  Amberley  saw. 

"Nobody  in?"  Seares  asked,  taking  out  his  watch. 

"I  suppose  Velancourt's  not  back  from  lunch  yet." 

"Preposterous." 

"It  seems  strange,  certainly,"  Amberley  said,  with  great 
suavity.     He  was  not  going  to  quarrel  again  to-day. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  old  Seares. 

"Joseph  Amberley.    I'm  downstairs.    Vokes's." 


276  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Ugh." 

They  parted ;  and  Amberley  could  not  fail  to  notice  the 
ugly  expression  in  Seares's  face.  What  had  happened  to 
Velancourt  ?  He  hoped  nothing  had  happened  to  him.  And 
why  the  dickens  wasn't  Velancourt  back,  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  after  they  had  parted?  He  went  down  the  stairs 
and  into  his  own  office ;  and  listened  for  Velancourt's  step. 
He  heard  old  Seares  open  the  door  above  with  a  key  from 
his  own  jingling  bunch.  Then  there  was  silence;  and  he 
did  not  hear  Velancourt  come  in. 


CHAPTER   XXX 
CISSIE 


AT  the  first  announcement  of  Adrian's  dismissal  Cissie 
had  lost  her  head.  Shrilly,  driven  to  wild  despera- 
tion by  Velancourt's  acceptance  of  the  inevitable,  she  had 
railed  at  him  in  her  urgent  terror  of  consequences.  It  was 
Cissie  who  had  fired  Velancourt's  fear  that  on  losing  his  sit- 
uation he  also  lost  the  game.  She  had  watched  his  fruitless 
replies  to  advertisements,  had  waited  for  the  postman's 
knock  that  never  came,  except  as  an  announcement  of  some 
cramped  postcard  from  Elsie.  She  had  watched  thus  for 
nearly  three  months ;  and  perhaps  twenty  applications  had 
been  smothered  without  acknowledgment.  What  hope  could 
she  have  that  some  one  future  application  would  be  more 
successful?  He  would  go  on  writing,  and  nothing  would 
come  of  it ;  and  where  would  they  be?  She  had,  in  a  panic, 
insisted  that  he  must  get  something  else.  Otherwise  they 
would  be  penniless.  Once  a  man  was  definitely  out  of  a  situ- 
ation the  hope  of  another  one  dwindled. 

She  remembered  that  her  father  had  once  been  out  of  a 
situation  for  four  months ;  and  they  had  been  kept  alive 
only  by  two  lodgers  and  the  savings  which  her  thrifty 
mother  had  put  by.  Her  mother  had  by  hard  words  driven 
her  father  out  of  the  house  each  morning  to  look  for  work ; 
she  had  mastered  him  in  that  time,  rising  to  venomous 
savagery  as  he,  returning  tired  out  each  evening,  reported  a 
succession  of  failures.     And  her  father,  a  carpenter,  was 

277 


278  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

a  man  who  could  really  work:  if  you  gave  Adrian  a  nail 
he  could  not  knock  it  in.  She  knew  she  would  still  find 
him  marking  a  place  on  the  wall  for  a  nail  to  strike,  and 
lost  in  some  useless  dream  that  took  his  mind  off  the  work. 

Apart  from  her  dread,  because  they  could  have  no  lodg- 
ers, and  because  they  had  now  no  savings,  but  only  the 
debt  of  the  furniture,  she  knew  of  no  tactics  better  than 
her  mother's  destructive  bullying.  It  had  been  as  though 
her  mother  had  been  all  the  time  crouched  for  some  fiercer 
strangling  hold  to  kill  her  father's  manhood:  so  Cissie 
crouched,  instinctively.  Adrian's  first  business  was  to  keep 
her :  if  he  could  not,  then  she  must  be  forever  on  to  him, 
using  all  her  spleen  to  remind  him  of  his  responsibility,  to 
rob  him  of  his  independence. 

That  was  all  Cissie  knew.  She  had  seen  it  done:  she 
had  no  conception  of  other  tactics.  Man  was  the  bread- 
winner. So  long  as  he  earned  the  bread,  he  was  to  be  flat- 
tered into  a  sense  of  power.  Once  he  failed,  he  must  be 
brought  to  heel  by  dread  of  a  querulous  wife.  If  he  had 
no  money,  and  could  get  none,  he  must  be  driven.  It  was 
as  though  the  mainspring  of  a  watch  had  snapped  and  had 
whirringly  signalled  its  breakdown.  So,  hysterically,  had 
Cissie  taken  the  news,  impulsively  following  an  instinct 
which  she  obeyed  without  thought.  That  which  was  the 
abandonment  of  every  fine  feeling  had  led  her  into  vitu- 
peration. It  lasted  on,  after  her  energy  had  exhausted  it- 
self, in  the  form  of  a  sullenness  more  evil  than  Velancourt's 
apathy.  When  he  had  left  for  the  office  she  had  sat  down 
with  a  heavy  look  of  disagreeableness  on  her  pretty  swollen 
face,  and  she  had  continued  to  think  of  the  disaster,  and 
angrily  of  Velancourt,  and  pityingly  of  herself,  with  a  sort 
of  underlying  complacency.  She  did  not  know  what  she 
had  said ;  but  she  had  worn  herself  out  with  excited  shrill- 
ness ;  and  he  had  been  passive  under  it.  That  was  how  it 
had  been  at  home  when  she  had  been  a  little  girl.  She  re- 
membered how  quiet  her  father  had  been  and  how,  when 
her  mother  had  been  out  of  the  room,  he  had  sat  in  his 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  279 

creaking  chair,  and  sighed.  At  first,  she  knew,  he  had  tried 
to  protest;  but  her  mother  had  kept  on  in  a  higher  voice. 
She  had  felt  the  same  fear.  Adrian  must  get  something. 
He  must.  When  one  said  "must"  in  that  way,  one  implied 
desperation,  one  implied  "can't." 


II 

After  an  hour's  brooding,  during  which  she  raked  up  a 
good  many  of  her  more  emphatic  phrases  and  indulged  her- 
self with  more  than  one  mot  d'escalier,  Cissie  began  to 
clear  away  the  breakfast,  still  quivering  as  the  result  of  the 
nervous  strain  she  had  undergone.  She  felt  that  she  was 
almost  helpless  with  Adrian — as  though  she  had  to  push 
him,  to  make  him  do  anything.  If  only  he'd  been  differ- 
ent !  It  was  a  good  job  he  had  a  wife  who  could  look  after 
him — helpless,  he  was.  But  she  had  just  said  that  she  also 
was  helpless.  That  remained  to  be  seen.  Her  face  had 
that  hard  obstinate  look  that  Amberley  had  once  surprised ; 
you  would  have  thought  it  impossible  that  Cissie  could  ever 
again  smile  or  look  alluring.  At  that  moment  she  was  quite 
given  over  to  selfishness  and  a  contemptuous  resolve  to 
bring  Adrian  to  his  senses. 

But  then,  as  she  wished  Adrian  different,  she  remembered 
that  she  had  said  the  same  thing  to  Joseph  Amberley;  and 
her  more  gentle  feelings  began  to  provide  their  own  leaven- 
ing power.  She  had  tried  to  stretch  up  to  the  feeling  that 
she  supposed  Amberley  would  have.  He  would  think  that 
she  had  not  tried  the  right  way  to  make  Adrian  do  his  best. 
Oh,  yes,  she  had :  her  angry  feelings  said.  It  took  a  great 
while  to  make  her  genuinely  doubtful  of  her  own  wisdom. 
It  was  like  questioning  a  tradition  which  had  been  in  the 
family  from  its  first  arising;  and  the  Jenkins  tradition  had 
come  especially  out  of  the  mists  of  that  peculiar  antiquity 
which  lies  behind  every  suburban  family.     It  was  like  a 


280  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

calling  in  question  of  the  rights  of  women.  The  idea  at 
first  was  too  ridiculous  to  be  combated. 

Gradually  Cissie  began  to  remember  how  she  disliked 
her  own  mother,  how  her  mother  had  forced  her  to  hate 
things  by  insisting  that  she  should  do  them.  She  remem- 
bered many  instances  of  her  mother's  too-foreible  methods. 
She  hated  that  old  house  in  Camden  Town,  and  her 
mother's  sordid  little  iron  hand,  the  gentle  glove  to  which 
had  been  long  mislaid.  The  perception  grew  very  slowly  in 
her  mind  that  she  had  been  excited;  she  began  to  feel 
ashamed  of  herself,  and  to  make  long  explanatory  justifica- 
tion to  herself,  as  though  she  were  on  her  defence  before  a 
judge.  She  was  defending  herself  to  Amberley,  as  well  as 
to  Velancourt.  She  was  used  to  defending  herself;  she 
could  always  find  an  excuse  for  herself.  She  had  always 
been  forced  to  be  rather  untruthful,  because  only  by  dex- 
terous use  of  partial  falsehoods  had  she  been  able,  as  a 
child,  to  escape  beatings.  Equally,  she  had  had  to  invent 
reasons  for  running  out  of  doors,  when  she  really  wanted 
to  meet  "some  boy"  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  stand 
talking  to  him,  and  swinging  to  watch  whether  anybody  was 
coming  who  might  tell  her  mother.  So  Cissie  was  adept  at 
rather  voluble  explanation,  and  palliation.  She  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  this  case.  She'd  been  upset.  ...  It  was  so  sud- 
den. .  .  .  Didn't  mean  it  all.  .  .  .  He  ought  not  to  have 
frightened  her.  ...  If  he'd  been  different,  she'd  have 
been  .  .  .    And  so  on.    It  was  very  easily  arranged. 

Only  a  remembrance  of  Amberley's  friendly  face  made 
her  wonder  whether  Adrian  would  be  consoling  himself  in 
the  same  way.  He  was  so  serious  that  perhaps  he  would 
think  she'd  just  been  horrid.  He'd  think  she'd  been  selfish, 
talking  about  herself.  She  wasn't  selfish.  She  was  very 
unselfish :  she  had  told  him  so.  Yes,  but  he  was  so  funny, 
that  perhaps  he'd  act  in  a  way  that  other  men  didn't.  She'd 
read  and  heard  of  men  who  went  off  with  other  .  .  . 
Adrian  wasn't  like  that! 

She  sat  down  and  thought  what  she  could  give  him  for 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  281 

his  dinner  when  he  came  home  that  night.  Unfortunately 
it  was  Thursday,  and  she  had  not  very  much  money  left. 
She  would  give  him  a  chance;  she  would  let  him  have  a 
nice  meal,  and  she  would  talk  to  him  in  a  ladylike  way, 
showing  that  she  could  behave  differently  from  the  way  she 
had  followed  in  the  morning.  She  was  frightened  that  he 
might  .  .  .  get  not  to  like  her.  She  meant,  afraid  that  he 
might  realise  a  distaste  for  her.  If  he  did  that,  she  was 
lost  indeed.  Nothing  could  make  up  to  her  for  that.  She 
mustn't  lose  him,  or  make  him  lose  heart.  Her  first  appeal 
was  to  be  to  his  stomach :  after  that,  according  to  a  uni- 
versal tradition,  she  ought  to  be  able  to  do  anything  with 
him. 

Adrian's  dinner  was  ready  punctually;  and  Cissie  had 
changed  her  dress.  She  was  rather  nervous,  as  she  showed 
by  a  heightened  colour  and  a  considerable  fidgeting.  She 
watched  the  clock,  and  sat  with  her  ears  pricked.  The  room 
seemed  unearthly  quiet,  with  only  the  clock  tick-ticking 
away  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  fire  was  a  lovely  dull  red ; 
and  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the  lamp-lighted  table,  and  her 
feet  on  a  little  hassock  made  of  a  material  similar  in  colour 
to  the  strident  carpet.  The  fender  shone  and  glittered  with 
the  greatest  vivacity;  a  kettle  sat  inside  the  fender,  ready 
to  be  put  on  to  boil  for  the  tea  they  shared  after  Adrian 
had  finished  his  meal. 

Seven  o'clock!  He  was  late!  But  it  was  a  fine  night. 
She  did  wish  he  wouldn't  keep  her  hanging  about  like  this ! 
They  might  have  gone  out — it  would  have  been  nice  to  go 
for  a  walk  to-night.  She'd  have  liked  to  go,  with  all  the 
people  walking  and  walking,  and  their  feet  making  crisp 
noises  on  the  gravel.  She  hoped  he  wasn't  going  to  be  long. 
His  meal  would  have  to  be  taken  off,  else  it  would  be  too 
much  cooked.  He  wouldn't  like  it  hotted-up  for  him.  .  .  . 
Oh,  he  was  a  terror !  She  laughed  a  little  to  herself,  wait- 
ing there,  and  thinking  about  him. 

She  thought  of  the  morning  scene,  and  began  to  be  very 
ashamed   indeed   of   some   of  the   things   she   had   said — 


282  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

wicked  things,  she  thought  them.  The  memory  of  them 
made  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  She  could  not  now  so  read- 
ily excuse  herself  as  she  had  done  earlier.  The  mere  de- 
voted trouble  which  had  been  taken  in  preparing  his  meal, 
a  trouble  that  was  as  flattery  to  her  conscientiousness  as  a 
cook,  had  perceptibly  softened  all  her  feelings.  She  had 
cooked  the  meat  for  him:  she  had  laid  the  table  for  him: 
for  Adrian  alone  she  had  done  these  things.  It  was  impos- 
sible that  she  should  be  unaffected. 

But  she  was  nervous ;  because  if  he  came  in  cold  and 
stupid,  as  he  sometimes  did,  and  did  not  speak  to  her,  she 
remembered  how  lonely  she  had  been  all  day,  and  clattered 
the  knives,  or  pushed  the  plate  over  to  him,  in  such  manner 
as  to  give  warning  of  her  displeasure.  It  would  take  the 
least  little  thing  to  set  her  off,  she  knew :  she  was  still  ex- 
cited and  frightened  of  the  future;  but  she  would  try  hard 
not  to  show  it,  because  Mr.  Amberley  had  said  that  to  her. 
He  understood. 

Half-past  seven!  Good  gracious!  what  had  come  to  the 
boy !  It  was  later  than  he  had  ever  been.  She  would  have 
to  take  his  dinner  off.  She  did  so,  and  went  to  the  window, 
peering  out  into  the  darkness  in  the  vain  thought  that  she 
might  be  able  to  see  him.  She  could  see  little  figures  in  the 
street;  but  she  could  not  distinguish  one  from  the  other. 
She  came  restlessly  back  to  her  chair,  and  threw  herself 
back  in  it,  and  looked  above  the  mantelpiece  at  a  picture 
which  represented  two  young  people  walking  ecstatically 
under  one  umbrella.  Her  eyes  fell  from  time  to  time  to  the 
clock.  The  big  hand  moved  steadily:  she  watched  its  al- 
most imperceptible  progress  with  fascinated  eyes.  Ten  to 
eight.  Oh,  she  wished  he'd  come !  She  would  have  given 
anything  to  hear  his  step  and  the  key  in  the  lock.  The 
room-door  was  ajar,  so  that  she  could  not  fail  to  hear  the 
least  sound  of  his  approach. 

Her  face  slowly  hardened  as  the  time  went  on.  What 
could  be  keeping  him?  His  dinner  would  be  spoilt.  The 
fire  was  getting  low.     He'd  got  no  business  to  be  late  like 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  283 

this.  If  he'd  been  going  to  be  late  he  would  have  told  her. 
It  was  so  curious.  Oh,  well,  if  he  was  going  to  punish  her, 
she  didn't  care  that!  She  moved  nervously  in  the  chair. 
He  could  be  a  pig  when  he  liked !  Oh,  he  was  cruel !  But 
she'd  show  him  that  he  couldn't  play  that  sort  of  game  with 
her.  She  wouldn't  stand  it.  Just  because  vshe'd  been  cross 
with  him !  .  .  . 

What  was  that?  At  last!  Steps  on  the  stairs — two, 
three,  four.  Her  heart  seemed  to  stop.  Her  nerves  were 
tense,  waiting  for  the  key,  and  catching  the  approaching 
steps.  Then  her  heart  sank.  They  had  gone  past.  Up- 
stairs. Cissie  looked  again  at  the  clock.  Twenty  to  nine. 
She  lost  her  nerve,  and  began  to  cry.  .  .  . 

The  hours  went  on,  from  nine  to  ten,  and  on  to  midnight. 
Still  Velancourt  did  not  come,  still  Cissie  sat  in  front  of  the 
fire,  waiting,  while  the  fire  died,  and  she  seemed  to  have 
no  tears  left,  but  could  only  crouch,  waiting  and  listening 
in  the  increasing  silence,  with  dread  in  her  heart  and  with 
dry  eyes  watching  the  inexorable  hands  go  steadily  on, 
minute  by  minute,  hour  by  hour. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
FLIGHT 


VELANCOURT  plunged  away  from  Amberley  and 
from  the  Tarratonga.  No  thought  of  going  back  to 
the  office  occurred  to  him.  His  one  idea  was  to  get  away 
— far  away  from  the  dreadful  pursuing  words  of  Amber- 
ley,  that  burned  into  his  brain,  searing  it  as  the  hot  irons 
of  the  Inquisition  must  have  seared  their  victims.  Frag- 
ments of  the  indictment  occurred  to  him,  blinding  him  with 
their  fiery  significance.  They  pieced  themselves  together, 
adhering  despite  his  frantically  exerted  will  to  forget  them. 
Terribly  they  sang  in  his  head,  scathing  words  that  seemed 
to  convict  him  of  the  very  extremes  of  self-deception.  He 
could  not  escape  them.  Little  heeding  passers  or  the  inter- 
ruptions in  his  walk  of  bewildering  cross-streams  of  cease- 
less traffic,  he  plunged  blindly  on,  unconscious  of  his  direc- 
tion, flying  only  from  the  remembrance  of  words  so  full  of 
malign  understanding.  Horror  was  dominant  in  his  mind. 
Horror  to  have  the  heads  of  his  failure  so  unerringly  made 
apparent  to  him.  He  could  not  yet  protest ;  he  could  not  yet 
be  convinced  that  Amberley 's  summary  was  false  to  the 
truth  he  held  so  precious  within  his  heart.  For  the  moment 
it  was  unanswerable:  he  only  knew  that  he  recoiled  from 
it  and  rebelled  against  its  quiet  sureness.  Oh,  but  Amberley 
had  been  a  cad  to  lose  his  temper  and  cry  out  that  last 
deliberate  attack  upon  his  vanity !  It  was  the  lowest  pitch 
of  cruelty. 

284 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  285 

Vehemently  he  struggled  on,  desperate  in  his  endeavour 
to  shake  off  the  inexorable  remembrance  of  what  had 
passed.  He  walked  fast,  so  obviously  shaken  with  agitation 
that  those  whom  he  met  turned  and  watched  him  as  he  sped 
on,  shaking  their  heads.  He  walked  through  streets,  and 
past  tall  houses,  as  though  unaware  of  their  existence,  as 
though  he  was  far  away  from  any  familiar  surroundings ; 
and  yet  they  must  strangely  have  been  present  as  an  ugly 
insidious  atmosphere  for  his  hideously-painful  thoughts. 

Without  knowing  it  he  passed  near  his  old  home,  where 
Cissie  had  lived ;  he  passed  through  Hampstead,  near  where 
Cissie  was  thinking  dubiously  of  him ;  on  and  on  through 
Childs  Hill  to  Cricklewood  and  Edgware,  and  Elstree,  and 
beyond.  The  evening  fell,  the  night  came,  the  stars  peeped 
out  one  by  one,  until  the  whole  sky  was  brilliant,  a  daz- 
zling range  of  unflecked  darkness,  from  which  the  stars 
looked  clustering  down,  each  one  a  witness  to  his  headlong 
terror  of  the  new  knowledge  that  beset  him. 

Suddenly,  exhausted  beyond  any  effort  that  his  uncon- 
scious will  might  exert,  Velancourt  stumbled  and  fell  at 
the  side  of  a  dark  lane,  mysterious  with  tall  hedges  that 
stood  back  against  the  dim  starlight  and  made  more  intense 
the  grey  shadow  of  the  lane. 


II 

He  did  not  immediately  lose  consciousness ;  but  lay  there 
with  the  feeling  of  rest  rich  in  his  mind,  as  though  the  fall 
had  snapped  that  horrible  sequence  of  recollection  which 
had  spurred  him  thus  far.  The  warm  damp  earth  was  be- 
neath him,  pungent  smelling  and  indescribably  full  of 
health-giving  fragrance.  He  pressed  his  face  downwards, 
sighing  with  relief,  almost  crying  at  the  wondrous  cessation 
of  his  torment.  He  prayed  that  this  might  be  the  end,  and 
that  he  might  never  awaken  to  all  the  soiling  bewilderments 
of  life.     So  to  die,  very  quietly,  with  the  stars  above,  and 


286  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

the  dark  friendly  earth  below,  and  with  his  beating  heart 
stilled  in  the  night  peace  he  had  so  sweetly  found  .  .  .  that 
was  his  slow  exquisite  desire.  It  gently  swayed,  as  the 
wind  swayed  ever  so  slightly  the  stiff  branches  above  him ; 
all  the  world  swayed,  like  the  onset  and  recession  of  quiet 
waves  upon  soft  shores.  Very  gradually,  with  hope  dawn- 
ing in  his  heart,  Velancourt  fainted. 

He  lay  there  in  the  shadow,  and  everything  around  him 
was  still  except  for  the  low  murmur  that  is  everywhere  and 
always  audible  when  alien  noises  have  ceased.  Sometimes 
there  came  a  little  muffled  chirping  from  an  awakened  bird, 
sometimes  a  breeze  rattled  the  tough  branches  of  the 
bushes  :  otherwise  there  was  no  sound.  He  seemed  to  drift 
from  his  swoon  into  a  long  dreamless  sleep;  and  the  night 
passed  while  he  still  lay  sleeping  beneath  the  hedge. 

With  the  dawn  there  came  a  faint  soft  rain  that  passed 
before  the  sun  rose.  It  saturated  the  ground  beside  him, 
and  wetted  his  coat  and  his  hair.  It  pattered  upon  his  out- 
stretched hands.  Then  the  sky  flushed,  and  the  fresh  search- 
ing breeze  of  early  morning  caught  straying  leaves  and  made 
them  run  whispering  along  the  lane.  One  leaf,  dry  still 
because  it  had  been  sheltered  from  the  rain,  flickered  by  and 
lay  upon  Velancourt's  hand,  lying  there  long  after  other 
leaves  had  been  driven  further  by  successive  puffs  of  wind. 
Still  he  slept,  and  the  leaf  turned  over,  so  that  it  fell  upon 
the  ground.  Then,  as  the  day  grew  grey,  and  when  it  was 
so  nearly  light  that  objects  became  easily  distinguishable, 
Velancourt's  eyes  opened.  He  was  puzzled  at  his  situation. 
He  could  not  recall  anything  of  what  had  happened.  But 
he  felt  stiff  and  depressed,  thrown  back  by  his  waking  into 
a  sense  of  disaster,  even  though  he  could  not  yet  remember 
the  occasion  for  his  late  distress.  He  closed  his  eyes  again, 
and  yawned,  and  stretched  himself,  rolling  upon  his  side. 
The  earth  upon  which  he  had  lain  was  all  pressed  down, 
and  his  clothes  were  dusty  and  muddy.  His  boots  were 
caked  with  thin  dry  mud  from  the  previous  night's  walk- 
ing ;  the  toes  only  were  still  moist  with  the  earth  into  which 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  287 

they  had  sunk  by  imperceptible  pressure.  He  looked  at  his 
hands,  the  palms  of  which  were  browned  with  earth;  and 
with  one  hand  felt  his  wetted  hair.  A  little  way  from  him 
his  hat  lay,  lining  upwards,  soaked  by  the  early  morning 
shower,  forlornly  muddy  and  dilapidated. 

It  was  long  before  he  realised  what  had  happened  to  him ; 
and  by  that  time  he  had  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  was 
standing  yawning,  with  his  arms  raised  and  his  hands  be- 
fore his  eyes.  Then  he  remembered,  by  degrees,  all  the 
horrors  of  the  day  before,  and  leant  against  the  trunk  of  a 
big  tree  whose  arms  in  summer  shaded  the  lane.  Groaning, 
he  knew  that  he  had  still  to  face  his  sorrows :  the  easy  way 
of  death  was  not  yet  his.  Cissie — Barbara — Amberley.  Al- 
ways Amberley !  He  swayed  forward  sharply  in  an  access 
of  despair.  Cissie — Barbara — Amberley.  Nothing  was 
solved.  The  sweet  enveloping  darkness  had  but  cloaked  his 
misery;  misery  itself  was  discovered  afresh  in  the  cold 
morning  light.  The  cherished  forgetfulness  had  been  only 
a  respite.  Everything  was  still  as  it  had  been;  the  future 
was  as  hard  and  as  inescapable.    What  was  he  to  do  ? 


Ill 

Velancourt  took  two  or  three  steps  away  from  the 
friendly  tree.  His  head  was  aching,  and  he  felt  both  faint 
and  weary.  He  could  not  think  what  was  to  be  done. 
When  he  tried  to  think  he  instinctively  raised  his  hand  to 
his  head,  as  though  he  might  in  some  degree  help  to  make 
his  thoughts  more  clear.  It  seemed  to  make  the  blood  thud 
in  his  head,  and  he  reeled  as  with  a  vertigo.  Then  he 
picked  up  the  bruised  hat  from  where  it  had  fallen  when 
he  stumbled,  and  dully  began  to  dust  from  it  the  earth  and 
leaf-fragments  which  adhered:  only  the  brim  was  muddy, 
and  the  lining  was  very  wet.  Much  of  the  dried  mud  on 
his  clothes  could  also  be  dusted  off,  although  what  was  still 
moist  was  conspicuous  enough  to  betray  his  place  of  lodg- 


288  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

ing  for  the  night.  He  looked  down  at  the  mud  ruefully, 
not  because  he  had  realised  that  it  might  provoke  inquiries 
or  suspicion,  but  because  it  offended  his  fastidious  sense  of 
fitness.  To  be  soiled  hurt  him.  That  was  while  his 
thoughts  were  still  dulled  by  his  throbbing  head.  If  he 
could  only  think  what  to  do!  If  only  he  could  have  felt 
clear.  It  was  not  that  he  was  afraid  of  things :  he  was  not 
a  coward :  what  chafed  him  was  the  extraordinary  sense 
of  being  somehow  a  prisoner,  of  being  in  a  strange  land 
with  an  alien  language.  He  was  .  .  .  Amberley  had  said, 
only  too  truly,  he  knew,  that  he  w~s  inexperienced.  He 
was  over-sensitive.  Those  words  did  not  mean  anything 
to  him.  He  could  not  think  in  general  terms ;  he  could  only 
plod  round  and  round  in  a  dreary  circle  of  unanswerable 
doubts  and  questions. 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
had  come,  wondering  where  he  was,  and  how  it  could  be 
that  he  had  come  there  without  being  familiar  with  the 
place.  He  could  not  recognise  his  surroundings ;  they 
seemed  to  be  very  much  like  any  other  northern  district 
near  London.  He  could  not  remember  ever  having  marked 
the  particular  glimpses  that  he  every  now  and  then  caught 
from  the  road  he  walked.  Presently,  after  he  had  turned 
into  the  main  road,  he  saw  Elstree  ahead,  but  he  did  not 
know  Elstree,  and  could  not,  from  the  name,  form  any  idea 
of  his  present  distance  from  London.  Wearily  he  dragged 
on  into  the  village,  and  went  into  a  small  shop  that  seemed 
to  be  open.  Here  he  was  able  to  wash  and  to  brush  his 
clothes,  and  to  have  some  breakfast.  Then  again  came  the 
insistent  question  :  what  was  he  to  do  ? 

His  whole  nature  shrank  from  going  back.  He  had  come 
away  from  all  the  evils.  To  go  back  to  them  was  impossi- 
ble.   But  he  knew  he  would  have  to  go  back. 

"You  see,  there's  Cissie !"  he  said  aloud,  in  a  stupid  voice. 
How  unreal  his  love  for  Cissie  became  at  this  distance !  He 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  going  back  to  her.  The  echoed 
sound  of  her  voice  made  him  shiver,  and  his  thoughts  of 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  289 

her  were  far  more  soberly  terrible  than  they  had  ever  been. 
It  was  not  merely  that  he  believed  his  love  for  Cissie  to  be 
so  quickly  dead.  He  knew  in  a  flash  of  horror  that  he 
disliked  her:  he  almost  hated  her.  And  Cissie  must  have 
sat  up  waiting  for  him  until  late  the  night  before.  She 
must  now  be  in  anxrety  about  him.  He  could  not  have  felt 
such  dislike  if  he  had  not  in  some  strange  way  wronged 
her.  He  would  have  to  go  back.  His  lip  curled  in  bitter 
contempt  at  the  knowledge  that  she  would  think  he  had 
run  away  from  her,  like  some  defaulting  husbands  she  must 
have  read  about  in  newspapers.  She  would  think,  perhaps, 
that  he  had  lost  his  memory.  She  would  think  he  had  left 
her  for  some  selfish  reason.  Yes,  but  he  must  go  back: 
Cissie  would  be  frightened  about  him. 


IV 

Wearily  he  wandered  on,  through  Elstree,  and  down  and 
up  and  down  steep  hills  until  he  saw  far  below  a  brilliant 
tramcar  swaying  along  a  straight  road.  He  was  coming 
into  Edgware.  He  met  the  tram  and  passed  it,  and  reached 
the  village.  A  clock  which  he  saw  pointed  to  half-past 
eleven.  It  made  him  think  of  the  office:  he  had  not  fin- 
ished his  work  yesterday.  It  was  still  lying  on  his  desk, 
unheeded.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  trudged 
on.  The  tramcars  were  running  both  down  and  up  the  long 
straight  uninteresting  road.  He  was  crushed  with  a  sense 
of  its  squalid  dulness.  Long  after  he  had  first  noticed  it 
he  passed  those  large  sheets  of  dark  water  "down  at  the 
Welsh  'Arp  which  is  'Endon  way,"  though  he  did  not  know 
that  this  was  Hendon.  He  came  to  Cricklewood  by  two 
o'clock.  If  he  had  considered,  he  would  have  known  that 
he  was  within  half  an  hour's  walk  of  home;  but  his  instinct 
drove  him  on.  He  did  not  know  where  he  was  going;  he 
only  pushed  blindly  on,  through  Cricklewood,  down  Shoot- 
up  Hill,  and  under  the  Railway  Bridges.    He  was  now,  al- 


290  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

though  the  name  of  the  road  varied,  in  the  main  Edgware 
Road.  By  five  o'clock  he  had  emerged  at  the  Marble  Arch, 
and  it  was  quite  dark.  The  traffic  bewildered  him,  booming 
and  rattling  and  rushing  with  an  astonishingly  regulated 
wildness  in  every  direction.  An  uncontrollable  faintness 
seized  him,  and  he  leant  up  against  a  wall.  In  all  the  hur- 
rying people  there  was  none  who  stopped :  only  if  he  had 
fallen  would  they  have  clustered  to  his  side,  like  flies  upon 
a  corpse.  In  a  moment  he  was  better;  but  he  was  warned 
that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast,  and  went  into  a 
teashop.  But  that  only  reminded  him  of  Amberley  at  the 
Tarratonga,  and  he  found  he  could  not  eat  what  he  had 
ordered. 

When  Velancourt  had  drunk  the  strong  cup  of  tea  for 
which  he  had  asked  he  went  out  once  again  into  the  roaring 
street.  He  was  much  steadier  now,  and  walked  along  Ox- 
ford Street  as  one  of  the  multitude  with  his  head  lowered 
and  his  feet  mechanically  following  a  straight  course.  It 
was  six  o'clock  now ;  Amberley  would  have  left  the  office. 
Barbara  would  be  home. 

He  reached  Oxford  Circus ;  and  passed  on  to  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  and  New  Oxford  Street,  and  Hart  Street.  A 
few  minutes  more  brought  him  to  Theobald's  Road.  He 
knew  now  what  he  wanted  to  do.  He  would  be  there  anon. 
Faint,  but  with  one  dominant  idea,  he  reached  Great  James 
Street.  All  the  front  windows  of  the  building  in  which 
Robinsons'  office  was  were  black:  the  house  looked  de- 
serted. Not  even  at  the  top  windows  were  there  any  lights, 
though  he  strained  his  tired  eyes  upwards,  trying  to  im- 
agine them. 

For  a  time  he  stood  opposite;  but  his  strength  began  to 
go,  and  he  presently  moved  across  to  the  front  door.  His 
key  admitted  him.  He  stepped  inside,  into  the  light  of  the 
pale  flicker  of  gas  above  the  door.  On  the  chained  mat  he 
stopped  again.  Mrs.  Berry,  the  housekeeper,  was  cleaning 
the  ground-floor  back  room.  He  walked  quietly  to  the 
stairs. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  291 

"It's  only  Mr.  Velancourt,"  he  called  out  to  the  house- 
keeper, and  she  came  and  looked  at  him  round  the  door. 

He  went  up  the  stairs  to  the  first  floor,  and  unlocked  the 
door.  Then  he  fumbled  for  matches.  The  gas  flared  up, 
whistling  and  pointing  four  strange  sharp  fingers  askance, 
like  a  starfish.  Velancourt  staggered  to  the  table,  and  sat 
down  in  his  chair,  vaguely,  with  a  dull  frown  of  helpless 
stupidity  on  his  brow.  He  could  not  remember  why  he  had 
come  here.  He  could  remember  nothing.  Barbara  was 
above:    he  could  not  hope  to  see  her.     He  had  come  for 

The  papers  were  gone.  His  desk  had  been  cleared.  Stu- 
pidly he  looked  at  it,  standing  absolutely  bare.  Mrs.  Berry 
had  perhaps  taken  them?    Mr.  Seares  .  .  . 

Velancourt  stared  before  him.  The  papers  themselves 
were  nothing;  but  if  Mr.  Seares  had  been  to  the  office  in  his 
absence  .  .  .    His  head  sank  lower. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

AMBERLEY   TAKES    CHARGE 


SUSAN  and  Joseph  Amberley  sat  at  breakfast;  and 
Susan,  with  a  satisfaction  that  was  almost  gloating, 
was  praising  the  works  of  a  celebrated  novelist,  one  of 
whose  products  had  been  extraordinarily  efficacious  in  keep- 
ing Mrs.  Amberley  engrossed  on  the  previous  evening.  She 
described  the  occasion  to  Amberley,  who  had  been  out  at  the 
home  of  a  friend. 

"My  chief  fear,"  she  admitted,  "is  the  thought  that  they 
must  one  day  come  to  an  end.  However  many  these  are, 
they  can't  possibly  last  for  ever!" 

It  was  a  depressing  thought  to  them  both. 

"Perhaps  she'll  read  them  over  again?"  Amberley  sug- 
gested. 

"Not  with  the  same  zest.  She'll  peck  at  them;  but  she 
won't  devour  them!" 

"True."  Then  he  was  inspired.  "I  shall  insidiously  and 
villainously  introduce  her  to  the  works  of  sundry  other 
writers,"  he  said.  "Comparable  writers.  Not  the  real 
thing;  but  novels  by  persons  of  superior  literary  power, 
such  as  Trollope ;  and  some  of  a  kind  nearly  approaching 
our  friend  (God  bless  her!),  written  by  accomplished 
women  of  our  own  day." 

"Surely!"  cried  Susan.     "Surely  there's  nobody!" 

"I'll  never  tell  you !"  said  Amberley,  in  a  mysterious  way. 
"But  I'll  promise  to  provide  the  dope  until  you're  married. 
No  longer!" 

292 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  293 

"Poor  mother!"  murmured  Susan,  struck  with  a  mystic 
pity.  "It's  a  shame  to  make  fun  of  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  Joe, 
it  was  rather  wonderful  last  night.  And  look :  he  brought 
this !" 

She  held  up  her  left  hand ;  and  Amberley  swooned  right 
away. 

Afterwards,  during  his  journey  to  the  office,  he  smiled 
again  at  Susan's  so  manifest  happiness,  which  had  in  these 
two  days  made  her  almost  grandmotherly  in  her  assiduous 
attention  to  his  every  lightest  whim.  Never  had  she  been 
so  exceedingly  careful.  If  he  found  a  hair  in  his  saucer 
she  was  as  disturbed  as  she  might  have  been  if  the  hair  had 
been  a  cockroach.  His  meals  were  punctual,  his  room  al- 
most blazing  with  cleanliness  and  comfort.  It  was  true  that 
Amberley  felt  himself  the  recipient  of  a  reflected  glory ;  but 
he  knew  that  was  not  everything.  He  knew  that  Susan  had 
found  an  object  in  life.  So  he  accepted  everything  with 
gratitude,  and  was  amusedly  glad,  as  a  brother  should  be  in 
such  circumstances. 

The  breakfast  proceeded,  when  his  sufficient  recovery 
had  been  ascertained. 

"We  thought  of  going  to  Hadley  Woods  to-morrow," 
Susan  said,  airily. 

"Really."  Amberley  acknowledged  the  information  in  his 
politest  manner;  but  it  gave  him  a  little  pang.  He  was 
afraid  that  he  would  be  rather  lonely,  after  all.  It  was  like 
a  continuous  underlining  of  his  own  disappointment. 

"And  we  thought  ...  if  you'd  come  .  .  ."  went  on 
Susan,  in  a  rather  pink  voice,  bending  over  her  teacup  and 
pretending  to  look  and  see  if  there  was  any  sugar  in  it.  .  .  . 

"Certainly  not !"  said  Joseph,  in  the  utmost  indignation. 

"If  you'd  come,  perhaps  Barbara  might." 

"Failing  which,  I  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  come  and 
make  a  merry  third?"  he  said  with  great  bitterness. 
"Rather  not,  my  dear!" 

"No,  Joe.  ...     If  Barbara  will  come,  will  you?     It's 


294  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

not  that  we  so  terribly  want  to  be  alone.  I  felt  ...  I  felt 
.  .  ."  she  faltered. 

"You  felt  very  unselfishly,  child;  but  I  won't  come. 
Thanks  all  the  same."  Amberley  felt  that  he  was  perhaps, 
escaping  rather  cleverly  from  a  direct  reply  to  her  question. 

"Supposing  Barbara  does  come?" 

"You  won't  ask  her." 

"Ernest's  probably  asking  her  at  this  very  instant." 

"She'll  refuse." 

"Why  should  she?    She's  not  an  idiot!" 

"Give  me  some  more  tea,  and  make  your  plans  for  Er- 
nest. Personally,  I  think  of  going  to  a  football-match,  to 
see  fifty  thousand  sportsmen  watching  a  game  between 
twenty-three  other  sportsmen." 

Susan's  eyes  held  a  very  peculiar  expression  as  she  looked 
steadily  at  him.  It  was  an  expression  that  combined  sisterly 
anxiety  with  shrewdness,  and  innocence  with  the  chagrin  of 
a  baulked  schemer.  Amberley  quailed  before  that  youthful 
glance,  as  he  might  have  quailed  before  young  Harry. 

"You're  afraid,"  said  Susan,  briefly;  and  held  out  her 
jewelled  hand  for  his  cup. 

II 

Afterwards  he  rather  plumed  himself  upon  dexterous 
finesse.  With  these  young  people,  who  saw  things  with 
such  devastating  clearness,  the  devices  employed  by  such 
rejected  lovers  as  himself  became  as  the  devices  of  the  idi- 
otic ostrich.  He  might  bury  his  head ;  but  he  could  hardly 
still  their  inquisitive  minds.  Susan  was  roused,  a  very 
huntress,  and  the  flight  from  her  was  going  to  be  as  excit- 
ing as  it  was  stern.  Every  twist  and  feint  would  be  made 
under  her  sharpened  observation,  and  would  be  referred  to 
her  darting  intuitions.  How  long  could  he,  for  Barbara's 
sake  as  well  as  his  own,  keep  to  himself  the  fact  of  his  de- 
structive secret?  Perhaps  Barbara  herself,  with  a  bleeding 
scalp  at  her  belt,  would  tell  Susan?    He  imagined  a  con- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  295 

sulfation  between  the  two  of  them.  He  imagined  Susan,  in- 
genuously championing,  "I  wish  .  .  .  Joe  .  .  ."  And  Bar- 
bara :  "Hasn't  he  told  you?  Oh,  that  night  at  the  theatre." 
He  imagined  their  mingled  sighs  of  satisfied  regret.  Possi- 
bly Susan  would  be  resentful  that  he,  her  marvellous 
brother,  should  be  rejected?  Saving  loyalty  to  Barbara 
checked  him:  she  was  not  a  gadabout,  not  one  of  those 
scandalous  creatures  who  flaunted  unuttered  love  before 
their  fellow-girls  from  ineradicable  vanity !  Barbara  would 
be  staunch.  He  could  not  have  loved  an  indiscretionist !  It 
was  essential  to  his  conception  of  Barbara  that  her  quiet 
code  of  fastidious  scrupulousness  in  such  matters  should  be 
as  sound  as  his  own. 

Amberley  rode  in  the  tramcar  with  uneasy  comfort.  He 
was  miserable;  but  he  did  not  prize  his  misery  and  pore 
upon  it,  as  many  people  do.  He  did  not  try  to  throttle  it, 
which  would  have  made  his  misery  as  recurrent  as  loneli- 
ness. He  starved  it  by  inattention.  He  read  his  paper,  and 
tried  to  look  upon  the  passing  flood  of  life  as  he  had  always 
done,  as  something  that  would  continue  without  his  pres- 
ence, but  as  something  which  was  co-ordinated  in  his  im- 
agination into  a  rich  fallow  field  of  mental  experience. 
There  was  plenty  to  be  thankful  for  in  the  world.  There 
was  each  to-morrow.  There  was  action.  It  was  only  the 
weak  spirits  who  found  life  dull.  Amberley,  in  his  time  of 
stress,  was  in  danger  of  developing  into  one  of  his  own  pet 
abominations,  an  esprit  fort.  It  was  as  well  for  his  peace 
of  mind  that  he  did  not  realise  this. 


Ill 

He  arrived  very  punctually  at  the  office,  and  thereby  dis- 
turbed Hackett,  who  was  a  few  minutes  late.  Hackett 
rushed  in,  and  convulsively  altered  the  calendar,  in  such  agi- 
tation that  he  forgot  to  remove  his  cuffs.  On  finding  Am- 
berley preoccupied,  however,  the  youth  proceeded  to  adjust 


296  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

his  dress  in  the  customary  manner,  making — as  it  were — 
false  keels  to  his  cuffs  before  he  began  work.  It  was  a 
spirit  of  cleanliness  that  greatly  perplexed  Amberley,  be- 
cause in  spite  of  Hackett's  endeavours  the  linen  cuffs  looked 
intolerably  dirty.  It  hardly  seemed  worth  while  to  protect 
them,  he  thought.  .  .  .  Perhaps  Hackett  wore  paper  to 
conceal  the  cuffs?  That  was  another  problem  for  him,  to 
go  with  his  doubt  as  to  whether  Hackett  brushed  his  hair 
before  washing. 

The  office  became  absorbed,  except  for  Hackett's  cough, 
which  sounded  forced  and  came  with  irritating  persistency. 
Amberley,  who  had  before  now  referred  to  a  Hacketting 
cough,  looked  up  sometimes  with  a  baleful  air.  Then  he 
searched  in  his  desk  for  a  Formamint  bottle,  kept  for  such 
occasions,  and  mutely  threw  it  to  Hackett.  There  was  a 
longer  silence  than  usual. 

The  bright  fire  threw  out  its  glowing  heat,  banked  up  as 
it  was  with  small  coal.  It  revealed  the  hideous  threadbare 
state  of  the  hearthrug,  and  the  stricken  poverty  of  the 
stained  and  patternless  linoleum.  It  revealed  also  certain 
shortcomings  as  a  cleaner  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Berry,  the 
housekeeper. 

Amberley  had  just  noticed  that  one  piece  of  coal  had  be- 
gun to  croon  a  long  sad  romance  of  "old  unhappy  far-off 
things"  in — presumably — Ireland,  where  such  things  are  in- 
digenous, when  the  door  of  the  office  opened,  and  a  fright- 
ened face  appeared. 

"Mr.  Amberley !" 

He  sprang  up.  Cissie  Velancourt  stood  in  the  room,  her 
face  desperately  pale,  her  hair  untidy,  her  whole  manner 
betokening  the  wildest  misery. 

"What's  the  .  .  ."  Before  he  could  speak,  she  was  over 
by  his  desk,  agitatedly  questioning. 

"Have  you  seen  him?  .  .  ." 

"No.    Anything  wrong?" 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear.    He  hasn't  been  home." 

"Have  you  tried  upstairs?" 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  297 

"I've  rattled  and  rattled.  .  .  ."  She  clung  to  his  arm, 
thankful  for  a  familiar  face. 

"Wait  a  bit."  He  led  her  upstairs  again.  The  door,  as 
she  had  indicated,  was  locked.  He  knelt  down  at  the  key- 
hole. There  was  no  key  in  it;  but  he  could  see  nothing 
through  the  keyhole  but  the  bare  wall  opposite. 

"Velancourt !"  he  called.  There  was  no  answer.  There 
was  only  absolute  silence.  He  turned  to  Cissie  again.  "I 
saw  him  at  lunch  yesterday/'  he  said.  "Not  since.  He 
hadn't  come  back  in  the  afternoon.  I  saw  Mr.  Seares. 
He's  not  there.  What's  that  bit  of  paper?"  He  stooped. 
A  piece  of  paper,  that  had  been  pinned  to  the  door,  lay  on 
the  ground.  Upon  it,  in  a  crabbed  hand,  was  written,  "All 
communications  to  Tederill  &  Tombs,  15  Bedford  Row." 
He  showed  the  paper  to  Cissie.  His  quick  mind  went  back 
to  the  quarrel.    What  had  become  of  Velancourt? 

"Come  downstairs  again,"  he  said.  "We'll  go  there." 
They  went  to  Tederill  &  Tombs ;  but  from  them  could  ob- 
tain no  help.  Even  Amberley's  presence  availing  them 
nothing.  They  offered  to  forward  a  letter  to  Seares.  They 
could  give  no  further  information.  "If  he  goes  home,  can 
he  get  in?"  Cissie  told  him,  yes.  "You'd  better  go  home. 
If  he  turns  up,  I'll  wire." 

Cissie  listened  to  him  helplessly :  she  was  so  distraught 
that  she  could  hardly  understand  what  Amberley  was  say- 
ing. 

"I  can't  go  home  ...  I  can't  go  home,"  she  moaned. 
"It's  so  awful !" 

Amberley  could  not  leave  his  work  longer.  He  put  her 
into  a  taxicab  and  gave  the  driver  five  shillings.  Then  he 
gave  Cissie  some  more  money,  as  she  said  she  had  none. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  urgently.  "If  he  turns  up,  I'll  wire. 
If  he  turns  up  at  home,  wire  me.  If  he's  not  here  by  the 
time  I  leave  I'll  come  straight  to  you.  If  he's  not  home 
then  we'll  see  what's  best  to  be  done.  He's  sure  to  turn  up. 
Don't  be  afraid.  It's  bound  to  be  all  right.  We'll  find 
him." 


298  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

After  she  had  gone,  he  ran  upstairs  to  the  Grettons',  and 
saw  Mrs.  Gretton,  who  replied  to  his  very  cautiously- 
worded  inquiry  by  a  blank  ignorance.  His  mind  searched 
round  for  possible  means  of  finding  Velancourt.  Quite 
clearly  he  took  upon  himself  the  responsibility  for  his 
friend's  flight ;  but  that  helped  him  not  at  all.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  find  Velancourt:  reasons  for  his  absence  could  be 
discovered  later.  If  Velancourt  had  gone  away,  he  was  re- 
sponsible; if  some  accident  had  occurred  news  was  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  be  available.  He  suddenly  had  a  thought, 
and  telegraphed  to  Susan,  asking  her  to  go  to  Cissie,  at  the 
Velancourts'  address,  and  to  keep  her  company  until  he 
came.  He  did  not  know  how  soon  Susan  would  be  able  to 
go ;  but  he  knew  she  would  start  as  soon  as  she  could,  and 
he  knew  that  her  candid  cheerfulness  would  be  a  great  com- 
fort. At  first  he  hesitated  about  sending  the  telegram ;  until 
he  remembered  how  absolutely  certain  it  was  that  Susan 
would  blame  him  for  not  doing  it. 

When  that  had  been  sent  off,  he  could,  at  the  moment,  do 
no  more  than  keep  his  own  and  Hackett's  ears  pricked  for 
any  step  upon  the  stairs.  At  lunch-time  he  went  upstairs 
again,  and  several  times  during  the  afternoon;  but  always 
without  result.  At  last,  in  the  evening,  he  hurried  to 
Hampstead. 

There  he  found  Cissie  and  Susan;  Cissie,  though  still 
wretched,  as  different  as  possible  from  the  hysterical  girl 
of  the  morning;  Susan  graver  than  usual,  but  ready  to  do 
anything  he  needed  without  flinching.  She  watched  him 
with  an  expression  that  seemed  as  unlike  her  general  sunny 
jollity,  but  which  seemed  to  hold  even  more  understanding 
affection  than  usual.  Velancourt  evidently  had  not  re- 
turned. They  both  came  to  the  door  at  his  rattle  of  the  let- 
ter-box, and  Cissie  gave  one  dreadful  little  sob  of  distress 
before  she  recovered  her  self-possession.  Amberley  sat 
down  and  pondered. 

"She's  tired  out,"  Susan  whispered;  "though  she's  been 
lying  down." 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  299 

Amberley  thought:  Velancourt  had  been  to  lunch  with 
him ;  had  not  returned  to  the  office.  He  couldn't  have  much 
money.  He  surely  couldn't  have  .  .  .  He  would  not  yet 
consider  that  possibility.  Supposing  Velancourt  still  alive, 
he  would  .  .  .  For  some  time  he  could  not  frame  any  con- 
vincing course.  Then,  with  a  cry,  he  thought:  "Barbara!" 
Velancourt  would  go  back  to  her.  If  not  to-night,  then 
some  other  day  or  some  other  night.  She  would  be  a  magnet 
to  draw  him  from  the  ends  of  London !  It  was  so  surpris- 
ingly simple  a  solution  that  he  almost  laughed  aloud.  His 
next  step  must  certainly  be  another  visit  to  Great  James 
Street! 

In  a  few  minutes  he  started  on  his  return  journey,  impa- 
tiently waiting  and  waiting  until  he  should  be  at  his  desti- 
nation. Then  a  hurried  walk  at  the  other  end.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  light  in  the  first-floor  window!  Mrs.  Berry?  She 
might  be  cleaning  the  office  at  this  time  in  the  evening.  His 
heart  fell.  Two  at  a  time  he  sprang  up  the  stairs,  and 
pushed  open  Robinson's  unlocked  door.  Velancourt,  with 
a  ghastly  smile  upon  an  otherwise  expressionless  face,  was 
sitting  at  the  desk,  a  pen  in  his  hand,  dipping  vaguely  for 
the  ink,  which  he  never  reached.  The  sight  of  him,  com- 
pletely vacuous,  made  Amberley  feel  desperately  sick;  it 
was  so  horrible. 

IV 

A  telegram :  "All  right.  Knocked  up.  No  need  alarm" 
was  sent  to  Cissie  by  the  agency  of  Mr.  Berry;  because 
Amberley  did  not  want  unduly  to  alarm  the  Grettons.  Then 
he  persuaded  the  reluctant  and  hardly-conscious  Velancourt 
to  descend  the  stairs  and  get  into  a  cab.  There,  with  his 
arm  all  the  time  round  Velancourt,  he  sat  in  the  dim  light, 
his  heart  throbbing,  and  the  bitter  knowledge  deepening  that 
he  had,  as  he  had  suspected,  been  responsible  for  this  ex- 
traordinary collapse.  It  was  not,  he  knew,  that  he  had 
actually  created  the  impulse  for  flight:    he  could  not  have 


300  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

done  more  than  bring  it  to  a  head :  but  that  was  a  thought 
grievous  enough  in  itself.  He  would  not  defend  his  speech 
by  saying  that  Velancourt  had  begged  for  it ;  that  was  quite 
beside  the  point.  To  be  brutal,  even  upon  provocation,  or 
by  precise  request,  was  no  part  of  his  work.  His  business, 
in  so  far  as  he  had  any  business  at  all  in  the  galley,  was  to 
save  Velancourt  from  the  consequences  of  his  own  weak- 
ness. But  he  had  no  real  place  within  the  web  of  Velan- 
court's life.  It  was  true  that  their  lives  touched ;  even  that, 
in  reference  to  Barbara,  they  came  directly  into  conflict.  It 
was  true  that  he  still  thought  that  every  word  he  had  spoken 
was  an  understatement  of  what  he  considered  dangerous 
weakness.  But  he  was  full  of  self-reproach  for  his  failure 
to  take  notice  of  Velancourt's  nearness  to  complete  pros- 
tration. He  had  been  for  once  unquestionably  inhuman. 
He  was  thankful  when  they  reached  Hampstead. 

Velancourt  gave  a  wondering  look  around  him  at  the 
room;  and  shuddered,  half  turning  in  Amberley's  arm.  He 
made  no  sound  at  all  of  protest.  Cissie,  in  a  state  of  help- 
lessness, clasped  her  hands ;  and  Susan,  after  one  involun- 
tary cry  of  "Oh,  poor  .  .  ."  took  Velancourt's  arm  and 
helped  to  lead  him  to  a  chair.  Amberley  thereupon  took 
Cissie's  hand,  and  spoke  to  her. 

"I'll  go  and  get  a  doctor.  You  get  him  to  bed.  I  don't 
think  it's  very  very  serious ;  but  he  seems  worn  out.  He 
hasn't  said  anything  all  the  time.  Can  you  get  him  to  bed, 
or  shall  I  help?" 

Cissie  could  do  it  while  he  went  for  the  doctor. 

Thereafter,  in  due  time,  reassured,  and  promising  to 
come  again  on  the  morrow,  the  Amberleys  left  the  Velan- 
courts.  But  they  had  made  Cissie  eat,  and  the  doctor  had 
so  encouraged  her  with  words  of  timely  confidence,  that 
she  was  reconciled  to  her  loneliness  and  had  regained  some 
of  the  courage  that  Amberley  had  supposed  her  to  possess. 
Susan  did  not  refuse  the  kiss  that  Cissie  begged  so  mutely; 
and  Amberley  was  thankful  to  get  away  because  Cissie  fol- 
lowed him  with  such  a  look  of  unspeakable  gratitude  that 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  301 

she  drove  deeper  into  his  heart  the  feeling  of  shame  which 
festered  there. 


"What  d'you  suppose  was  the  cause  of  it  ?"  Susan  asked 
him,  as  they  walked  home. 

Amberley  looked  away  from  her.  What  was  he  to  say? 
It  was  so  impossible,  without  a  long  explanation,  to  reveal 
to  her  the  series  of  events  that  had  so  easily  led  to  this 
happening.  If  he  cried  out,  dramatically,  that  he  was  to 
blame,  she  would  impulsively  exonerate  him.  He  did  not 
wish  to  suffer  the  additional  pain  of  her  affectionate  disbe- 
lief in  his  culpability.  It  was  enough  that  he  should  have 
received  such  acknowledgment  from  Cissie.  Besides,  who 
could  tell  what  was  really  the  cause  of  such  a  thing?  Even 
though  he  made  no  attempt  to  shirk  his  own  part  in  it,  he 
knew  that  no  man  lost  his  head  through  such  an  accusation. 
He  could  not  suppose  Velancourt  so  unnerved  as  he  had 
been  without  some  contributory  degrees  of  extreme  suffer- 
ing. There  must  have  been  much  more  pain  than  he  had 
known :  or  perhaps  he  really  was  callous,  as  he  so  often 
had  been  called? 

"My  dear,"  he  said  to  Susan.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I  know. 
I  expect  it's  the  coincidence  of  several  horrible  things.  But 
it  was  simply  splendid  of  you  to  keep  your  head.  If  you'd 
seen  her  this  morning,  when  she  came  to  the  office " 

"Joe,  dear.  ...  If  you'd  heard  her  talking  about  Bar- 
bara," Susan  interrupted. 

"Good  gracious!"  He  had  not  realised  that  she  would 
tell  that.  He  might  have  known!  What  was  the  good  of 
his  discretion,  if  Susan  was  primed  with  more  facts  than 
he  had  personally  gleaned? 

"She  was  quite  reckless,"  Susan  continued.  "It  made  me 
think  suddenly." 

They  were  past  the  Spaniards  Inn  now,  in  a  dip  of  the 
road ;  and  it  was  very  beautiful  to  see  a  single  lamp  shining 


302  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

at  them  and  spraying  a  little  ring  of  light  round  the  foot  of 
the  lamp-post.  Amberley  pulled  himself  together:  his 
thoughts  had  strayed  away  from  his  immediate  dilemma, 
back  into  the  trouble  that  lay  behind. 

"Is  it  true?"  asked  Susan,  after  waiting  for  him  to  ask 
what  she  had  heard. 

"What?"  Amberley  was  conscious  of  an  unaccustomed 
confusion  in  his  thoughts. 

"About  Barbara  .  .  .  that  he  .  .  ." 

"My  dear :  you  can't  expect  me  to  tell  you  things  of  that 
sort."    He  would  have  checked  her. 

"I  didn't  expect  her  to.  She  hates  Barbara.  She  thought 
he  might  have  gone  away " 

"Nonsense !"  Amberley  said,  brusquely.  "Nothing  of  the 
sort." 

"Of  course  not.  But  Joe.  .  .  .  She  said  all  sorts  of 
things.  She  said  you  knew  .  .  .  that  she'd  told  you;  and 
that  .  .  .  Oh,  some  long  story  of  how  she'd  rowed  him, 
and  then  remembered  your  advice,  and  planned  to  make  it 
up.  She  said  that  it  was  the  rowing  that  drove  him  away. 
She  said  you'd  given  her  such  good  advice.  That  was  like 
you !    Then  she  gradually  got  better." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Amberley  said,  in  a  testy  way.  He  was 
genuinely  bored.  He  was  unprepared  for  Susan's  next  dis- 
quieting speech,  which  bowled  him  over. 

"Joe.  .  .  .  She  said  she'd  rather  see  you  dead  than  mar- 
ried to  Barbara.    She  said  you  told  her " 

Amberley  gripped  Susan's  arm. 

"You're  hurting  horribly!"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice. 
"There's  a  good  girl !" 

Susan  took  his  arm  and  clung  tightly  to  it  all  the  rest  of 
the  journey.    She  had  thought  so. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 
CLARIFICATION 

I 

AFTER  what  seemed  a  weary  time  of  travail  to  them 
all  Velancourt  grew  better — and  they  found  him  a 
stranger.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  speak  to  them,  for  he 
was  most  ready  to  talk;  but  he  had  changed.  In  his  long 
sleep  he  seemed  to  have  achieved  some  peculiar  clearness 
of  mind  which  made  him  lie  or  sit  peacefully  in  great  com- 
fort, and  in  such  tranquillity  that  he  hardly  seemed  to  Cissie 
to  be  the  curious  creature  of  the  previous  month. 

That  Velancourt  was  able  to  enjoy  this  immunity  from 
worry  was  largely  due  to  Amberley,  who  had  supplied  all 
the  necessary  money,  and  had  impressed  upon  Cissie  the 
need  for  unusual  simplicity  of  conduct.  Velancourt  no 
longer  thought  of  the  office — the  letter  of  instant  dismissal 
written  by  Mr.  Seares  after  the  discovery  that  Velancourt 
had  deserted  his  post  had  not  been  shown  to  him,  and  Am- 
berley had  corresponded  with  Seares  to  some  effect — and 
there  did  not  arise  through  Cissie  any  querulous  fears  of 
the  future.  She,  awed  and  grateful  before  Amberley,  to 
the  verge  of  painfully  dumb  obedience,  was  anxious  only  to 
do  what  he  considered  right  in  this  emergency.  She  sat 
through  the  long  days  with  an  amazing  patience,  subsisting 
for  relaxation  upon  a  number  of  suitable  books  obligingly 
loaned  by  Mrs.  Amberley;  and  between  Cissie  and  Susan 
there  had  been  developed  a  curious  friendship. 

Every  turbulent  feeling  of  Cissie's  was  in  abeyance.   She 

303 


304  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

had  lost  that  thought  of  Susan  as  one  always  laughing ;  and 
she  had  found  her  a  good  friend.  She  had  felt  so  entirely 
without  help  until  the  Amberleys  came  that  she  would  not 
easily  forget  their  kindness.  Whatever  her  future  feelings 
might  be,  Cissie  now,  during  the  convalescence,  passively 
accepted  their  aid  in  a  spirit  of  relief.  And  Adrian  was 
kind  to  her,  so  kind  that  she  sometimes  felt  the  tears  in  her 
eyes  with  a  sort  of  humble  shame  that  made  her  as  tender 
with  him  as  she  had  been  to  Elsie's  baby.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  though — just  for  a  little  while — Adrian  and 
Cissie  were  living  in  that  affluent  state  of  peaceful  suffi- 
ciency, of  which  she  had  always  thought  as  a  part  of  the 
elusive  "some  day"  of  idle  dreams.  Her  gratitude  to  Am- 
berley  was  not  wholly  based  upon  material  things :  those, 
however,  were  what  she  most  certainly  appreciated.  She 
naturally  thought  less  of  Susan  than  she  did  of  Amberley: 
that  was  because  Susan's  help  had  been  of  a  more  strictly 
personal  and  intangible  order.  Also,  Amberley  was  male, 
and  efficient.  But  Cissie  wanted  Adrian :  her  love,  craving 
though  it  might  fundamentally  be,  was  still  Adrian's :  her 
service  was  uncomplainingly  his.  Each  day  she  watched 
him  grow  stronger,  and  remained  timidly  at  his  side,  for  he 
had  become  a  new  wonder  to  her;  he  had  become,  as  it 
were,  her  eldest  child.  She  did  not  understand  that;  but 
she  knew  that  in  tenderness  to  him  she  had  somehow  al- 
tered. She  thought  he  had  become  fragile — delicate,  she 
said.  They  had  both  altered.  They  had  both,  so  to  sepak, 
established  relations  with  their  own  "selves,"  which  they 
had  found  a  rather  fascinating  and  clarifying  experience. 
Cissie  was  afraid  to  think  too  much  about  anything,  in  case 
the  reality  should  be  unbearable ;  but  she  began  to  imitate 
Susan,  doing  her  hair  in  the  same  way,  and  with  ingenuous 
cunning  copying  Susan's  pretty  gestures  and  manners.  She 
noticed  how  Susan  behaved  to  Amberley ;  and  although  her 
own  efforts  in  the  same  direction  were  rather  inclined  to 
flounder,  she  lost  the  habit  she  had  had  of  pursing  her  lips 
and  faintly  jerking  her  head  from  side  to  side  in  assertion 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  305 

of  equality.  Amberley  felt  for  her  the  pity  that  he  felt  for 
animals — which  was  quite  half  shame  at  not  being  able  im- 
mediately to  communicate  with  them.  One  does  not  pity 
what  one  wholly  understands.  He  rather  dreaded  going  to 
Hampstead ;  but  he  went,  none  the  less,  and  never  failed 
to  carry  into  the  flat  whatever  natural  cheerfulness  he  re- 
tained in  these  dull  days. 

And  Velancourt  lay  in  bed,  or  sat  in  a  chair  by  the  fire, 
talking  with  Amberley  about  the  things  that  interested  him 
— God,  and  Plato,  and  Buddha,  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
and  such-like  subjects — with  such  unusual  collocations,  that 
Amberley  knew  he  was  a  little  queer  in  the  head,  and  said 
as  much  to  Susan.  .  .  . 

II 

When  Amberley  was  not  there,  and  when  Cissie  had 
nothing  to  say — for  there  was  no  news,  and  she  never  had 
anything  but  news  to  talk  about — Velancourt  used  to  have 
long  fits  of  silence  that  were  never  fits  of  moroseness. 
Never  before  had  he  such  opportunity  for  reflection ;  never 
had  his  own  mood  been  so  propitious.  He  was  able  to 
think  steadily,  not  impulsively  with  a  thousand  chopping 
cross  currents  forever  menacing  his  peace,  but  with  a  pierc- 
ing clarity  so  rare  as  to  be  delicious.  He  was  occupied 
upon  one  problem  only — his  own  life.  And  he  thought  of 
his  life  as  one  might  do  who  stood  curiously  outside  it. 
Like  that  medieval  poet  whose  whole  mental  history  was 
pictured  by  a  much  greater  modern  poet,  Velancourt  saw — 

".  .  .  his  old  life's  every   shift  and  change, 

Effort  with  counter  effort;  nor  the  range 

Of  each  looked  wrong  except  wherein  it  checked 

Some  other .  .  .  . 

The  real  way  seemed  made  up  of  all  the  ways — 
Mood  after  mood  of  the  one  mind  in  him." 

"Looked  wrong" — yes,  that  was  it.  For  there  was  much 
that  looked  wrong  when  he  came  really,  in  this  new  pas- 


3o6  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

sionless  way,  to  take  stock  of  his  own  actions  and  those 
counter-actions  which  had  made  him  chafe  in  the  past. 
Like  Sordello,  he  now  was  able  in  curious  calm  to  take  this 
retrospect;  but,  unlike  Sordello,  Velancourt  could  bring 
only  wistfulness  to  the  contemplation  of  his  life.  That  he 
was  moved  was  certain ;  but  he  never  mentioned  to  anybody 
what  thoughts  he  had  through  the  long  silent  spaces,  and 
they  none  of  them  guessed  until  afterwards.  He  saw  his 
birthplace  always  in  a  sunshine  of  happy  memory,  when 
the  greyness  of  Bradford-on-Avon  was  made  splendid  by 
the  sunshine  and  the  green  surrounding  heights,  and  when, 
on  the  old-fashioned  quays  by  the  gentle  river,  the  grass 
rose  between  the  stones  and  made  the  quays  look  for  all  the 
world  like  those  of  some  deserted  Dutch  or  Flemish  town. 
So  Velancourt  saw  it,  with  steeply-ascending  streets,  and 
terraces  far  up  the  hill,  where  he  never  went,  but  looked 
up  and  saw  diminished  figures  surveying  from  above  the 
capricious  beauty  of  the  winding  streets  and  irregular 
houses.  And  later  he  could  remember  Salisbury,  less  cheer- 
fully because  there  had  been  anxious  times  there;  but  still 
he  thought  he  must  have  been  happy  enough  in  those  days, 
because  they  were  sunk  in  his  mind  to  such  a  low-toned 
sweetness  of  recollection.  Only  London  was  shocking  and 
horrible,  saved  from  entire  hideousness  by  his  reading  and 
his  hunger  for  the  haunting,  ever-promised,  ever-evasive  se- 
cret of  the  world's  beauty.  He  saw  his  old  way  of  life  in 
a  mist — with  the  strange  unreality  of  old  griefs.  He  no 
longer  shuddered  at  Cissie  as  he  had  done  when  he  thought 
that  he  must  return  home  to  take  up  the  burden  of  unbear- 
able exactions.  He  felt  sorry  for  her.  He  saw  her  blun- 
dering as  the  fruit  of  a  pitiful  heritage,  and  no  longer  re- 
sented it  as  a  fault  personal  to  herself.  He  knew  that  if  he 
had  been  wiser  and  stronger  and  more  courageous — if  he 
had  that  ...  he  shrugged  as  he  sought  for  the  word  .  .  . 
that  verve,  or  tact,  or  what  Amberley  would  call  humour, 
which  he  so  painfully  was  aware  that  he  lacked,  there  might 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  307 

still  have  been  a  better  understanding  between  them  than 
there  had  been. 

These  thoughts  he  had,  not  in  a  spirit  of  egotism,  but  in  a 
clear  vision,  not  to  be  denied  by  any  consideration  of  his 
own  past  and  discarded  desires.  He  knew  that  Cissie  had 
seemed  beautiful;  he  still  thought  that  she  had  beauty,  but 
spoilt  and  disfigured  by  insistent  superficial  blemishes  as  to 
make  incongruous  the  label  that  the  word  "beauty"  carries 
to  most  minds.  He  knew  that  her  vanity,  her  ignorance, 
her  tears  and  reproaches,  were  all  accidents — so  he  could 
think  them  now,  when  he  was  removed  from  contact  with 
them,  when  they  appeared  to  him  almost  as  abstract  de- 
fects. Below  these  straining  efforts  at  the  articulate  expres- 
sion of  more  primitive  and  more  lovable  aspirations  there 
was  a  real  Cissie,  a  mystery. 

He  did  not  forgive  her :  he  did  not  think  of  the  idea  of 
forgiveness.  He  translated  Cissie,  so  to  speak,  into  an  al- 
legory ;  which  is  a  pastime  not  denied  to  those  who  are  in 
the  valley  of  light.  He  saw  her  with  a  cool  sympathy  that 
strove  to  regard  her  as  consisting  of  attributes.  He  did  not 
think  of  their  mean  quarrels,  of  his  or  her  sensitiveness  :  he 
was  trying  to  realise  a  normal  Cissie  beneath  the  manifes- 
tations of  her  tortured  and  perverse  superficial  nature.  He 
was  still  the  old  Velancourt,  to  the  extent  of  contemning 
facts ;  but  he  was  new  in  the  sense  that  he  for  the  first  time 
brought  to  bear  upon  his  wife  that  spirit  of  gentle  wistful- 
ness  which  had  earlier  made  exquisite  his  search  for  the 
unknown. 

Ill 

Of  Amberley  he  thought  in  a  new  way,  a  way  that  was 
all  gratitude  for  mistaken  labours.  He  saw  Amberley  as  a 
true  friend  driven  by  impatience  into  the  use  of  active  meas- 
ures which  had  been  defeated  by  Velancourt's  own  failure 
to  understand  the  spirit  by  which  they  were  moved.  He 
did  not  think  Amberley's  logic  had  failed  him ;  he  thought 


308  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

that  Amberley  used  logic  too  persistently  as  a  means  of 
governing  human  actions.  He  conceived  Amberley  as  re- 
garding life  as 

"A  chequer-board  of  nights  and  days," 

and  in  his  new  wisdom  Velancourt  saw  that  a  poor  plan  for 
— at  any  rate — himself.  It  had  made  him  rebellious.  Am- 
berley, he  continued  to  feel  sure,  was  great  on  facts ;  but 
poor  on  "temperament."  Velancourt,  who  had  not  been  su- 
percilious about  Cissie,  reached  what  was  very  nearly  a 
consciously-humane  superciliousness  when  he  thought  of 
Amberley.  He  was  not  yet  able,  and  never  would  be  able, 
to  understand  Amberley  as  well  as  Amberley  understood 
him.  By  Amberley's  definition  he  lacked  imagination :  ex- 
cepting in  his  contemplation  of  his  own  nature  he  was  ethi- 
cal and  objective  in  his  judgments  of  other  people.  So, 
he  found  Amberly  a  true  friend,  but  one  who  could  never 
understand  Adrian  Velancourt. 

Barbara. Gretton  was  not  the  cause  of  great  heart-search- 
ing. Velancourt  adored  her,  but  he  no  longer  desired  her. 
He  desired  nothing  now  but  peace.  He  thought  of  her  as 
supremely,  touchingly  beautiful;  but  he  did  not  define  her 
beauty.  It  lay  in  her  presence.  It  was  not  to  be  thought; 
but  to  be  felt,  in  a  soft  glow  of  comprehension.  She  was 
Barbara.  To  Velancourt,  that  sufficed.  He  reflected  that 
to  Amberley,  who  so  unceasingly  questioned  with  close 
scrutiny  the  human  beings  by  whom  he  was  surrounded, 
such  soft  comprehension  would  be  insufficient.  Amberley 
could  not  carry  a  picture  in  his  heart:  he  wanted  to  study 
the  composition.  Velancourt  faintly  sneered  at  Amber- 
ley's  technical  attitude  towards  human  beings.  To  Bar- 
bara he  paid  simple  homage.  Whatever  her  future  he  knew 
that  she  would  always  at  heart  be  beautiful. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  309 


IV 

Thus,  and  by  these  passages,  came  Velancourt  to  the  pic- 
ture of  himself.  He  did  not  here  shrink  in  disgust,  as  he 
had  done,  as  at  a  being  grosser  and  more  cowardly  than 
any  he  could  imagine  from  among  his  fellows.  He  was 
to  make  peace  with  himself,  to  try  and  know  the  things 
wherein  he  had  all  his  life  failed  to  achieve  the  happiness 
for  which  so  earnestly  he  had  longed.  He  could  remember 
how,  as  a  little  boy,  he  had  loved  the  night,  how  he  had 
worshipped  it.  He  could  remember  standing  at  night  in  the 
little  garden  behind  his  father's  house,  among  the  dark 
silent  rose-bushes,  looking  up,  with  a  sinking  heart  of  rap- 
ture, at  the  star-studded  sky  and  the  clear  white  moon.  The 
garden  seemed  still  to  hold  the  mysterious  fragrance  of  the 
flowers  which  in  the  daytime  raised  their  heavy  heads  in 
loyal  courage  to  the  sun.  The  grass  gleamed  pale  under  the 
moon ;  and  the  trees  moved  hushingly  to  the  lightest  breeze, 
a  precious  undersong  to  the  beating  of  his  almost  fainting 
heart.  Never  since  those  days  had  he  been  so  severely  con- 
scious of 

"the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress  .  .  . 
Bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light." 

Even  as  he  recalled  his  old  sensations  his  heart  softened 
again,  as  though  he  stood  in  the  little  old  garden  on  such 
a  night,  with  a  fine  wind  blowing  and  his  soul  clear  and 
unperturbed. 

There  were  other  visions  that  came  to  him — of  Cissie  in 
the  dark  room,  with  the  fluttering  light  upon  her  breast  and 
hair,  and  her  face  strangely  delicate  in  the  flying  shadows ; 
of  Barbara  coming  up  the  stairs  at  Great  James  Street  on 
the  day  of  his  stricken  flight,  and  of  many  half-forgotten 
pictures  of  light  and  twilight  gathered  on  his  walks  and 
holidays.     Again  he  heard  the  soft  kiss  exchanged  upon 


3io  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

Hampstead  Heath  .  .  .  and  remembered  his  passionate 
longing  for  the  love  that  he  had  afterwards  supposed  Cissie 
to  have  given.  These  little  things  seemed  to  him  now  so 
precious,  so  unquestionably  the  significant  moments  of  his 
life,  that  they  stood  out,  charged  with  an  emotion  almost 
beyond  his  present  mood,  as  though  in  things  more  tangi- 
ble there  had  been  a  lesser  reality,  or  a  baser  satisfaction. 
These  sweeter  memories  were  things  to  dream  of;  and  he 
had  never  cared  to  do  anything  but  dream. 

Then  there  was  the  sea,  which  he  had  never  forgotten. 
That  was  the  strongest  of  all  his  most  vivid  thoughts  of 
past  days.  If  he  closed  his  eyes  he  could  realise  with  ex- 
traordinary convincingness  the  picture  of  the  sea,  grey  and 
chill,  with  little  frosting  white  crests  of  foam  merging  pres- 
ently into  a  perfect  mist  of  whiteness  until  it  was  lost  in  the 
encroaching  night.  Velancourt  turned  his  head  to  one  side 
at  the  thought  of  the  sea,  so  powerfully  did  it  call  to  him  and 
shake  his  resolution.  And  Cissie  thought  he  had  fallen 
asleep,  and  sat  even  more  quietly  than  she  had  been  sitting, 
in  case  the  sudden  creaking  of  her  chair  should  awaken 
him. 

Velancourt  thought  tremblingly  of  these  wonderful  mo- 
ments of  emotion,  and  the  consciousness  grew  in  his  mind 
that  they  blotted  out  from  his  memory  all  those  moments  of 
stark  unhappiness  that  he  had  endured,  when  he  had  seemed 
to  be  face  to  face  with  impenetrable  difficulty,  and  when  he 
had  felt  that  the  God  in  whom  he  so  passionately  believed 
had  indeed  turned  from  him  and  left  him  lonely  and  for- 
gotten. He  forgot  the  evil  hours  of  grief.  ...  He  had 
shown  in  them,  he  knew,  a  sensibility  too  great  to  be  borne : 
now  he  was  wiser,  for  he  had  found  peace  within  his  grasp. 
He  had  no  longer  any  need  to  stab  himself,  as  he  had  done, 
with  recollected  unhappiness.    That  was  put  aside. 

He  did  not  pretend  that  his  life  had  been  happy;  he 
thought  it  had  been  unhappy,  and  quite  explicably  so.  He 
knew  that  something  in  his  nature  had  always  prevented 
him  from  responding  instantly  to  such  kindness  as  he  had 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  311 

met.  He  had  seemed  brusque,  from  confusion,  or  shyness, 
or  sometimes  perhaps  from  an  egotistic  pride;  and  after- 
wards, when  his  feeling  had  been  strong  for  some  sign  of 
gratitude,  the  apparent  hauteur  of  his  timid  approach  had 
hardened  and  stiffened  his  would-be  friends  into  strangers 
for  whose  favour  he  could  not  sue.  Only  Amberley  had 
persisted,  with  an  absence  of  self-consciousness  that  had 
made  him  the  one  friend  of  Yelancourt's  whole  life.  Yet 
Amberley  had  been  the  one  to  overstep  the  sensitive  limits 
of  Yelancourt's  confidence.  .  .  .  Amberley,  after  being 
asked  to  speak,  had  spoken  with  extraordinary  clearness 
and  kindness,  only  to  burst  into  that  one  vehement  sentence 
of  accusation  which  had  driven  them  apart.  Velancourt 
wondered  why  Amberley,  who  otherwise  had  observed  an 
unexampled  equanimity,  should  in  this  instance  have  grown 
so  brutally  angry.  .  .  .  He  had  pondered  upon  that  for 
the  first  hesitant  days  of  his  returning  consciousness.  Then, 
in  one  moment  of  penetration,  he  had  understood.  There 
was  only  one  good  emotion  stronger  than  friendship.  .  .  . 
It  seemed  to  come  flashing  upon  him,  explaining  many 
things.  It  made  him  like  Amberley  better ;  and  it  made  him 
want  to  say  out  clearly  to  Amberley  that  the  thought  of 
Amberley's  love  for  Barbara  gave  him  now  no  slightest 
pain,  but  only  a  delight  that  he  could  never  express  save  in 
his  heart. 

So  the  days  of  Velancourt's  convalescence  waxed,  and  his 
strength  increased. 


He  had  quite  clearly  planned  what  he  was  going  to  do. 
He  was  going  for  the  first  time  to  do  what  he  ought  long 
since  to  have  done.  He  was  going,  simply  and  gently,  to 
seek  his  own  peace.  In  finding  that,  he  opened  the  way 
for  peace  to  all.  He  did  not  regard  himself  as  being  in 
this  case  selfish :  to  take  up  the  material  burden  with  such 
faint  hope  of  ever  doing  more  than  struggle  along  with  an 


312  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

ineffectual  compromise  was  the  only  alternative.  No  doubt 
many  men  did  so  struggle,  picking  up  crumbs  of  arid  satis- 
faction out  of  a  shamefaced  dread  of  seeming  to  their  sur- 
rounding critics  selfish.  He  disregarded  that  alternative. 
He  had  begun  wrongly,  as  men  do  begin:  as  they  strove, 
so  he  had  striven  to  make  the  best  of  common  unhappiness, 
to  wander  along  unsteadily  upon  the  melancholy  path  of 
duty  to  others,  until  decrepitude  or  disease  claimed  their 
bodies  and  brought  their  souls  to  a  dead  tranquillity.  Not 
such  was  his  plan.  No  longer  should  his  search  for  beauty 
be  blinded  and  thwarted  by  the  distresses  of  ordinary  life. 

"The  one  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass: 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That   Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst;  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality." 

He  had  no  fear,  and  no  questioning.  A  quiet  resolve  had 
come  to  him  as  he  lay  in  the  stupor  of  insensibility ;  and 
death  seemed  to  him  the  one  inevitable  step  to  eternal 
peace.  He  would  shake  himself  free  for  ever  of  the  chains 
that  held  him,  sad  and  inarticulate,  to  the  unwilling  servitude 
which  spoiled  the  lives  of  men.  And  freedom  was  at  hand. 
Why  should  he  not  go  forward,  with  hands  outstretched,  to 
meet  it? 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  313 


VI 

When  Velancourt  was  at  last  able  to  go  out  of  doors  he 
went  on  the  first  day  for  one  or  two  short  walks,  and  in  the 
evening  of  the  second  day  Amberley  came,  and  they  all  sat 
by  the  fire,  talking.  Velancourt  was  for  the  most  part 
silent ;  but  Amberley  told  stories  of  Hackett  to  Cissie,  and 
Cissie  sat  giggling  at  them  until  they  had  had  supper  and 
Amberley  was  ready  to  go  home.  When  Amberley  rose, 
Velancourt  rose  also. 

"I  shall  come  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  he  said. 

"Oh  no,  Adrian.  .  .  ."  Cissie's  heart  sank.  Their  es- 
trangement seemed  upon  the  brink  of  renewal  if  he  could  so 
early  leave  her. 

"It's  a  splendid  black  night,"  Amberley  said.  "And  it's 
very  warm.  There's  a  fresh  mild  wind.  I  really  don't  think 
it  could  possibly  hurt  him.    But  not  far." 

"I  mean  to  go,"  Velancourt  said,  in  an  odd,  cold  voice. 

Cissie  shivered  a  little  at  her  disappointment.  He  was 
still  so  precious  to  her  that  she  could  not  make  a  further 
protest.  She  saw  him  standing  very  straight  and  thin,  but 
very  determinedly,  in  such  a  way  that  she  knew  he  was  set 
upon  going  out. 

"You'll  catch  cold  .  .  ."  she  said,  in  a  weak  tone. 

"Don't  wait  for  me,"  he  told  her.  "Go  to  bed,  and  try  to 
sleep." 

She  thought  he  was  talking  vaguely,  as  if  he  had  hardly 
heard  what  she  had  been  saying.  But  as  he  went  she  clung 
to  him,  and  felt  lips  that  were  piercingly  cold  upon  her  own. 

"Don't  let  him  go  too  far,"  she  whispered  to  Amberley. 
"It's  so  silly  of  him  to  want  to  go !" 

"I'd  rather  he  didn't  come,  of  course.  Do  him  far  more 
good  to  stay  in  quietly  with  you  by  the  fire.  Velancourt, 
why  not  stay  at  home  ?    You've  been  out  .  .  ." 

"I  should  stifle.  It's  a  beautiful  night,"  Velancourt  said, 
quietly.     "Good-bye,  Cissie.     Go  to  bed,  and  don't  wait  up 


3H  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

for  me.  You  look  awfully  tired."  He  kissed  her  again. 
Amberley  thought:  How  absurd  it  is  to  see  them  both  be- 
having extravagantly.  But  he  was  uneasy,  because  he 
thought  that  Velancourt  wanted  to  talk  to  him  alone  about 
money-matters;  and  he  did  not  want  to  have  to  go  into 
them. 

As  they  left  the  house,  he  said  to  Velancourt : 

"There  really  seems  a  fair  chance  of  the  Bath  job  coming 
off.  I  had  a  letter  from  my  friend  yesterday,  saying  that 
there  might  be  a  good  prospect  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year." 

"Yes?"  Velancourt  said.    "What  Bath  job  is  that?" 

They  were  separated  for  a  moment ;  and  Amberley,  sup- 
posing that  his  friend  had  forgotten  the  old  suggestion, 
made  some  sort  of  murmuring  promise  to  tell  him  about  it 
on  another  occasion. 

"You're  feeling  pretty  fit  now,  aren't  you  ?"  he  asked.  "I 
mean,  now  you  can  get  about,  you'll  be  coming  over  to 
Highgate.  It's  really  rather  amusing  to  see  young  Susan's 
airs  of  aged  womanhood.  You  heard  about  her  voluntary 
offer  to  retain  the  word  'obey'  in  the  marriage  service? 
She's  a  terrible  backslider,  of  course." 

"I'm  quite  well,"  Velancourt  said  coolly.  He  did  not 
make  any  attempt  to  speak  of  Susan. 

"I  always  think  that's  such  a  jolly  view  over  to  Hendon 
and  on  .  .  ."  Amberley  said,  pointing  north-west.  Velan- 
court seemed  to  be  in  a  dream,  so  that  he  hardly  heard  the 
words. 

"Yes.  Amberley,  you've  been  very  kind  to  both  Cissie 
and  me." 

"Rubbish.    I  know  you  think  I'm  inhuman." 

"Oh,"  said  Velancourt.  "No,  I  think  you're  particularly 
human.  You've  been  very  humanly  kind  to  Cissie.  I'm 
afraid  I've  never  been  that." 

Amberley  frowned  with  distaste. 

"Now  you  can  begin,"  he  said,  brusquely.  He  could  not 
understand  Velancourt's  gravity,   except  as  a  prelude  to 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  315 

some  offer  of  repayment.  "Listen,  that's  midnight  striking. 
You  be  human  and  go  back.  It's  the  best  thing  you  can 
do." 

They  halted  by  the  White  Stone  Pond,  and  shook  hands. 
Velancourt  looked  steadily  back  in  response  to  Amberley's 
dubious  scrutiny. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said.  "You're  a  brick ;  and  I'm  as  grate- 
ful as  anybody  could  be.  If  only  you'll  go  on  .  .  ."  His 
voice  suddenly  broke,  and  he  turned  away. 

"Good  night,  old  chap  .  .  ."  Amberley  waved  his  hand 
and  went  along  the  now  deserted  road  that  led  to  Highgate. 
"What  a  queer  card  he  is !"  he  thought.  "Now,  my  hearty, 
a  good  step  out !"  His  steps  echoed  dully  upon  the  asphalt 
pavement.  When  he  looked  up  at  the  sky  it  was  impene- 
trably dark,  for  heavy  clouds  hung  above,  and  the  lights 
along  the  road  broke  through  the  darkness  with  sudden  lit- 
tle gleams  of  welcome.  It  seemed  to  him  almost  uncannily 
quiet;  and  he  thought  with  satisfaction  of  the  home  and 
bed  that  lay  half  an  hour  before  him. 


VII 

Velancourt  turned  again  before  he  had  gone  very  far, 
and  watched  Amberley's  tall  figure  growing  smaller  in  the 
distance.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  His  resolution  fal- 
tered as  the  old  hunger  for  human  kinship  returned  to  his 
heart.  Amberley  was  his  friend,  unselfishly  sinking  his 
own  interests  in  those  of  others.  Amberley  could  be  kind 
to  Cissie,  and  could  earn  her  gratitude.  He  could  perform 
acts  of  unceasing  charity  without  ever  showing  that  he 
was  conscious  of  his  own  quality  as  a  man.  .  .  . 

But  Amberley  was  a  man  of  this  world. 

Velancourt  went  slowly  down  a  steep  path  on  to  the 
Heath ;  and  followed  the  path  until  it  brought  him  through 
a  little  dell  on  to  higher  ground.  Everywhere  the  black 
Heath  went  away  in  a  secret  night-vastness,  unbounded  by 


316  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

the  limits  which  day  revealed.  The  trees  whispered  a  very 
little,  and  the  warm  wind  gently  touched  his  face  and  hands 
as  he  walked  into  the  unknown  darkness,  treading  the  path 
that  lay  so  dimly  before  him.  He  passed  some  empty 
sheep-pens  which  he  had  sometimes  seen  in  daylight,  and  he 
knew  that  Hampstead  was  behind  him,  behind  him  for  ever. 
In  the  darkness  he  thought  of  Cissie  waiting  at  home;  but 
he  would  not  be  turned  by  that  knowledge  from  the  course 
he  had  so  determinedly  planned  long  days  ago  when  he  lay 
in  bed.  It  was  beautiful  to  him  to  hear  the  tall  trees  rust- 
ling so  peacefully,  and  to  have  the  sense  of  heavy  clouds 
high  above,  moving  with  a  slow  progression  before  the  tur- 
bulent winds  of  the  upper  air. 

Presently  he  saw  water  before  him,  stretching  black  and 
unrippled  as  though  it  might  have  been  a  sheet  of  glass. 
Only  when  he  was  quite  close  could  he  hear  the  tiniest 
plashing  that  it  made  against  its  boundaries.  His  feet 
moved  noiselessly  across  the  grass ;  his  heart  seemed  frozen. 
He  stood  looking  at  the  wster,  and  with  his  dry  tongue 
trying  to  moisten  lips  that  trembled.  Everything  was  very 
quiet:  he  could  hear  nothing  but  the  little  lapping  of  the 
water,  as  though  it  were  whispering.  Long  he  stood  there 
by  the  still  water,  with  bowed  head,  his  breath  coming  gasp- 
ingly, and  his  hands  clenched.  Then  he  stepped  softly  for- 
ward. 


I 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

DREADFUL   NEWS 


N  the  first  hour  of  light  Velancourt's  body  was  seen  by 
a  man  who  passed.  So  shallow  was  the  water  that  it 
could  not  long  conceal  him;  but  life  was  gone.  It  was  not 
long  before  the  discoverer  communicated  his  news,  and  in 
another  hour  both  Cissie  and  Amberley  were  summoned. 
Afterwards  Amberley  took  Cissie,  almost  fainting,  to  High- 
gate,  and  left  her  with  Susan.  It  was  the  only  thing  he 
could  do.  Later,  he  advised  Mrs.  Jenkins;  but  Cissie  re- 
fused to  go  to  her  mother.  Amberley  himself  was  as  deeply 
moved  as  he  had  ever  been — shocked  beyond  expression  at 
Velancourt's  action,  to  him  inexplicable ;  and  shocked  and 
puzzled  all  the  more  because  he  had  been  with  his  friend  so 
recently.  Cissie  could  not  explain :  she  could  only  sit  sob- 
bing, and  crying  through  her  sobs  that  Adrian  had  been 
cruel,  and  that  she  had  been  all  against  his  going  out.  But 
there  was  the  fact.  His  eyes  had  been  closed ;  but  his  face, 
still  beautiful,  was  rigid  and  of  a  bluish  pallor.  There  was 
no  letter,  no  word  of  any  kind.  Reason,  explanation, — 
there  was  none  given. 

Amberley  could  not  understand.  He  tried  to  remember 
something  in  their  talk  which  might  have  given  a  hint  of 
Velancourt's  design.  There  had  been  no  word  :  his  manner 
had  perhaps  been  constrained,  but  it  was  easy  to  imagine 
that  in  view  of  the  later  knowledge. 

"I   can't  understand!"     Amberley  said  to  himself  over 

3*7 


318  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

and  over  again.  "If  he'd  said  the  least  thing  that  could 
explain  it  I'm  sure  I  should  remember  it."  He  thought  of 
their  parting.  There  at  least,  in  Velancourt's  broken  fare- 
well, was  the  suggestion  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 
But  he  had  not  seemed  like  a  coward.  Why  should  he  have 
despaired  so  suddenly?  What  good  did  he  think  he  was 
doing? 

"He  said  'Good-bye,'  "  wailed  Cissie,  several  times.  "He 
said  'Good-bye'  to  me." 

Amberley  remembered  that  also :  to  himself  as  well  the 
word  had  been  used;  but  'good-bye'  is  now  so  frequently 
employed  as  a  casual  expression  of  farewell  that  he  had 
thought  nothing  of  it.  He  could  only  rack  his  brains  un- 
happily. 


II 

When  at  last  he  reached  the  office  that  morning  he  was 
very  late  indeed,  and  had  his  morning's  hard  work  to  make 
up.  Employers  are  not  interested  in  the  private  affairs  of 
their  clerks,  except  as  occasions  for  complaints.  Even  then, 
although  he  strove  to  concentrate  his  mind  upon  what  was 
before  him,  Amberley  could  not  work.  He  constantly  left 
off,  to  rest  his  head  on  his  hands.  He  could  not  get  out  of 
his  mind  the  sight  of  that  livid  face,  nor  out  of  his  ears 
the  dreadful  sobbing  of  Cissie.  Those  two  things  pressed 
upon  him,  and  made  his  thoughts  an  agony.  He  was  struck 
with  a  sort  of  despair  at  the  feeling  of  being  entirely  un- 
able to  realise  or  to  understand  what  had  happened — an 
anger  at  Velancourt  for  a  wanton  sacrifice  of  another  life, 
and  an  anger  at  himself  for  being  so  numbed  by  a  sensa- 
tion of  horror. 

It  seemed  to  Amberley  unbelievable  that  Velancourt 
should  so  deliberately  have  taken  his  own  life,  at  a  mo- 
ment when  there  really  had  offered  a  prospect  of  change 
for  the  better  in  his  affairs.    Unless  he  had  been  mad.    Un- 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  319 

less  love  for  Barbara  had  really  overwhelmed  him.  Am- 
berley  sat  dully  at  his  work,  wondering  what  he  had  to  do 
next.  He  knew,  with  rebellious  understanding  of  the  fact, 
that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  thoughts :  they  only  made 
him  feel  the  more  stupid. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  day  that  he  saw  Barbara. 
She  came  in  at  the  front  door  as  he  was  leaving;  and  the 
encounter  was  such  a  relief  to  him  that,  as  he  met  her,  he 
miserably  blurted  out  the  news,  unmindful  of  the  shock  it 
might  inflict. 

"Velancourt  .  .  .  Have  you  heard  ?"  he  said,  blundering 
into  it.  He  stood  heavily  before  her,  not  meeting  her  eyes ; 
so  that  she  saw  how  grey  and  exhausted  he  looked,  and 
pitied  him  for  it. 

"What  has  he  done?"  Barbara  demanded,  with  a  curious 
expression  upon  her  face. 

"He's  dead."  Barbara  said  nothing;  but  drew  her  breath 
quickly.  It  had  been  that!  Amberley  went  wearily  on  as 
though  he  were  grumbling:  "It's  so  bewildering;  because 
I  was  with  him  up  to  the  last  minute.  He  gave  absolutely 
no  sign.  He  was  rational,  and  good-tempered.  .  .  .  Noth- 
ing at  all  to  suggest  .  .  ." 

"D'you  mean  that  he " 

"Yes."  Amberley  would  not  let  her  say  the  words.  He 
only  stood  looking  at  her. 

"How  dreadful  that  is!  He's  dead?  Oh,  but  it's  im- 
possible !" 

"I've  seen  him.  I  can't  believe  it,  even  now.  Even  that 
doesn't  make  me  realise  it.  He  was  with  me  last  thing.  .  .  . 
He's  left  no  word  at  all.    No  word  to  anybody." 

Barbara  seemed  almost  to  sway  towards  him,  so  that  he 
caught  her  hands. 

"That's  not  so,"  she  whispered.  "I  never  knew — never 
guessed  what  it  meant.  But  he  wrote  to  me  .  .  .  I  had  a 
letter  this  morning.  He  said  nothing  ...  I  wasn't  to  show 
the  letter  .  .  ." 

"You  had  a  letter!" 


320  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"You  must  come  upstairs  with  me,"  Barbara  said. 
"Come  now.    You  must  see  the  letter." 

Ill 

The  letter,  written  in  pencil  upon  a  sheet  of  that  ruled 
paper  which  Velancourt  had  used  for  his  essay  on  Keats, 
ran: 

"Dear  Miss  Gretton, — I  would  rather  you  did  not  men- 
tion to  anybody  at  all  the  fact  that  I  have  written  to  you ; 
but  the  truth  is  that  I  have  resolved  upon  a  very  great  step, 
of  which  I  expect  you  are  sure  to  hear  in  a  little  while.  I 
would  write  to  Amberley ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  as  he  is  so 
very  energetic  it  might  bring  about  a  frustration  of  my  plan. 
I  cannot  do  what  I  propose,  however,  without  trying  to  put 
down  some  sort  of  apologia ;  and  I  want  to  tell  you  how 
very  much  all  your  kindness  has  meant  to  me.  But  for  you 
and  Amberley  I  think  I  should  have  been  dragged  down 
into  the  Hell  of  a  draggled  hopeless  existence.  As  it  is,  I 
am  rising  from  the  mire.  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  we 
met :  all  the  way  home  from  the  concert  I  had  the  memory 
of  you  distinctly  in  my  heart,  in  a  way  that  it  puzzled  me 
to  explain.  It  was  not  for  a  long  time  that  I  found  out  that 
I  loved  you,  and  I  should  not  dare  to  tell  you  this  now  but 
for  the  fact  that  you  will  never  see  me  again.  The  love  of 
you  has  never  been  a  grief  to  me,  and  it  has  never  been  a 
base  love;  but  it  has  been  the  turning-point  of  my  whole 
life.  I  am,  in  fact,  going  upon  a  long  journey,  in  the  expec- 
tation of  leaving  my  troubles  behind  me;  but  my  precious 
thought,  that  no  one,  not  even  you,  can  rob  me  of,  is  that  I 
have  known  what  it  is  to  love  as  few  men  are  able  to  love 
and  to  know  they  love. 

"All  the  time  that  I  have  been  ill  my  mind  has  been 
working  with  surprising  clearness,  and  I  have  seen  for  the 
first  time  how  many  and  how  horrible  my  mistakes  have 
been  all  along.    But  I  am  finished  with  them  now,  or  if  I 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  321 

am  not  I  shall  never  be.  My  mind  is  quite  clear,  and  I  am 
certain  that  I  have  found  the  right  way.  I  should  like  you 
to  tell  Amberley  this,  one  time.  He  is  very  generous,  and  I 
am  sure  will  always  be  so  to  me,  because  he  has  been  my 
only  friend,  and  he  has  loved  me  as  a  friend  should  in  spite 
of  myself ;  but  he  will  very  likely  not  understand  me  in  this 
as  in  some  other  things.  I  want  you  to  tell  him  that  nothing 
he  has  said  to  me  at  any  time  is  at  all  influencing  me  in  my 
present  course.  I  have  sincerely  judged  for  myself.  Am- 
berley is  often  swayed  by  personal  considerations  (not  his 
own)  in  a  way  that  is  foreign  to  me;  and  I  am  acting  now 
in  pursuance  of  a  clearly  thought-out  plan — on  an  idea  of 
life  which  is  as  strictly  logical  as  any  theory  of  his.  It  is, 
of  course,  very  impertinent  of  me  to  ask  you  to  give  mes- 
sages in  this  way.  I  should  not  do  this  if  I  did  not  hope 
that  your  friendship  for  Amberley  is  as  great  as  his  for  you. 
Will  you  tell  him  that  my  greatest  hope  at  this  time  is  for 
his  happiness  and  for  yours.  For  myself,  I  know  that  my 
love,  if  I  had  expressed  it  otherwise  than  I  have  done  in 
this  letter,  could  only  have  affronted  you,  though  I  hope 
that  you  will  not  think  that  I  have  been  grossly  insulting 
now ;  and  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  think  to  yourself  how 
strangely  I  am  writing.  You  will  think,  perhaps,  that  I  am 
mad.  But  I  am  not  mad.  I  am  sure  for  the  first  time.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  understand  ?  With  very  sincerest  wishes 
for  your  happiness,  I  am  your  sincere  friend, 

"Adrian  Velancourt." 

Amberley  handed  the  letter  back  to  Barbara. 

"Good  God!  He  must  have  been  mad!"  he  said,  sav- 
agely. "It's  the  letter  of  an  insane  person."  He  was  very 
excited.  "Velancourt  was  never  such  a  fool  as  the  letter 
makes  him  out.  It's  an  absurdly  vague,  vain  letter.  .  .  . 
You  see  how  vague  it  is !" 

"But  Joe,  he's  dead,"  Barbara  reminded  him. 

Amberley  stopped. 

"Don't   tell   anybody  about  the  letter,"   he   said.      "He 


322  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

doesn't  mention  Cissie.  That's  what's  so  bitterly  cruel. 
It's  she  who  suffers,  poor  kid.  You'd  think  from  that  letter 
that  he  had  a  right  to  kill  himself.  No  sane  man  with  a 
wife  ever  thought  that.  If  he  was  sane,  he  was  entirely  an 
egoist.    I  hope  he  was  mad." 

"I  wonder,"  Barbara  said.  "He  says  you  sometimes 
didn't  understand  him." 

Amberley  looked  at  her. 

"You'd  justify  him?"  he  asked.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  excited, 
and  can't  see  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  Barbara  said,  gently.  "It's  horrible.  I 
think  it's  ugly  and  stupid.  But  I  think  that  perhaps  we 
don't  understand.  That  perhaps  it  might  have  been  uglier 
and  more  stupid.  His  wife's  young  enough  to  get  over  it. 
Do  realise  that  he'd  got  an  idea !" 

"You  defend  him  !"  stammered  Amberley.  "I  can't  under- 
stand !" 

"But  you  will  understand,  Joe,"  Barbara  said.  She  almost 
added :  "I  couldn't  love  you  so  much  if  you  weren't  able  to 
understand  !"  The  mere  repression  of  that  impulsive  speech 
made  her  flush.  It  made  her  realise  how  tremendously  she 
believed  in  him.  It  made  her  realise  that  to  Amberley  Vel- 
ancourt  seemed  to  have  taken  the  way  of  least  resistance. 
That  made  her  wonder  afresh,  after  he  had  gone. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 
BONNE  BOUCHE 

I 

CHRISTMAS  had  come  and  gone ;  and  on  the  first  Sat- 
urday of  the  new  year  a  party  of  four  sat  round  a 
very  small  tea-table  in  an  inn  some  fifteen  miles  out  of 
London.  The  inn  was  at  South  Mimms,  a  little  distance 
north  of  Barnet;  and  the  tea-table  accommodated  Susan, 
Barbara,  Ernest,  and  Joseph  Amberley.  They  were  eating 
with  relish  bread  and  butter  and  strawberry  jam,  and  a 
home-made  cake,  and  home-made  scones.  They  were  drink- 
ing a  great  deal  of  tea.  Outside  the  inn  everything  was 
dark;  but  a  fire  and  bright  lights  made  the  little  room  as 
cheerful  as  home.  Above,  hanging  in  festoons  from  the 
ceiling  to  the  chandelier,  were  streams  of  coloured  paper, 
which  had  been  allowed  to  stay  up  after  the  Christmas  fes- 
tivities were  over.  Red  and  yellow  and  blue  and  green 
paper  was  mingled  and  twisted  in  raw  gay  combination. 
And  the  four  young  people  were  as  gay  as  the  paper.  They 
all  talked  at  once,  in  a  sort  of  genuine  high  spirits.  They 
endured  each  other's  badinage  with  ostentatious  patience, 
and  strove  energetically  to  respond  with  better  retorts. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  time  went  by,  and  the  chiming  of  an 
old  grandfather  clock  was  the  first  hint  they  received  of  the 
late  hour.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  and  they  had  still  three  or 
four  miles  to  walk,  to  Barnet  Station,  before  they  could 
catch  their  train  home. 

"My  goodness  me !"  cried  Susan.    "Listen !" 

323 


324  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

The  clock,  as  though  to  express  its  own  surprise,  struck 
pell-mell,  an  appalling  muster  of  seven  notes  in  a  single 
instant,  faster  than  any  clock  ever  struck  before.  It  struck 
so  fast  that  the  notes  were  as  one.  They  began,  and  they 
ended,  in  a  clangour,  terrifying  to  all  who  heard. 

"What  a  strange  clock,"  Ernest  asserted.  "I  never  heard 
the  like." 

"It's  a  startler !"  said  Amberley.  "It  must  be  a  rare  shock 
at  midnight — like  church  bells  all  pulled  at  once.  Come, 
Susie!" 

They  pushed  back  their  chairs. 

"Ugh !  Look  out  of  the  window.  It  looks  like  black 
frost !"  Susan  said.  "Isn't  it  a  contrast !"  They  looked  out 
of  the  window,  crowding,  and  then  back  into  the  room.  It 
dismayed  them  all ;  but  they  dissembled. 

"A  brisk  walk !"  cried  Barbara.  "And  we  shall  think  it's 
better  than  all !" 

"Isn't  she  cheerful !"  Susan  put  on  her  coat  with  Ernest's 
help. 

"Philosophy  is  the  art  of  making  both  ends  meet !"  Ernest 
told  her. 

"Then  what  philosophers  we  must  be  !" 

Amberley  walked  about  the  room,  squaring  his  shoulders ; 
but  he  was  ready  as  soon  as  the  others.  Susan,  shivering, 
stepped  into  the  road  with  her  collar  turned  up,  and  a  little 
blue  woollen  cap  on  her  fair  hair.  Barbara,  who  was 
dressed  in  a  coat  and  skirt  of  grey-brown  tweed,  followed 
more  quietly.  She  did  not  shiver,  but  was  prepared  to  walk 
fast  through  the  chill  air.  Little  lights  from  cottages  showed 
through  drawn  blinds,  hinting  at  comfort  within.  It  was 
very  dark,  and  the  stars  were  out. 

"Now !"  cried  Amberley,  and  they  stepped  out  as  though 
it  might  have  been  on  a  day's  march. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  325 

II 

Very  soon  the  two  couples  fell  apart,  and  Barbara  and 
Amberley  out-distanced  the  others  by  more  determined 
marching.  They  looked  back,  and  waited,  but  Susan  had 
taken  Ernest's  arm,  and  was  talking  very  busily  to  him,  so 
they  went  on  alone.  The  hedges  rose  high  on  both  sides  of 
the  road,  and  there  were  no  other  passengers,  for  the  eve- 
ning was  bleak  and  untempting  to  all  but  the  sturdy. 

"I  must  say  that  I  wouldn't  stir  out  if  I  were  at  home," 
Amberley  said. 

Barbara  considered  for  a  moment. 

"I  expect  you  would,"  she  answered  him.  "Something 
would  make  you." 

"D'you  find  that?"  he  asked,  interestedly.  "It's  very 
strange;  but  certainly  true.  Some  instinct  seems  to  beat 
the  lazy  one.  Men  are  always  doing  things  they  think  they 
don't  want  to.  You  wonder  why  they  can't  rest  quietly ;  and 
they're  always  going  into  danger." 

"Not  now,"  Barbara  objected.  "Men  are  very  decayed. 
They  don't  want  to  go  into  danger." 

"Certainly.    Danger  is  alluring." 

"I  suppose  it  is  so.  It's  a  temptation.  It's  rather  fine  to 
think  of  risking  one's  life  for  some  purpose." 

"Look  at  Velancourt." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  he'd  got  anything  to  hold  him  back." 

"He  must  have  had.  Dread  of  annihilation,  at  any  rate. 
It's  cowardice  that  keeps  many  men  alive.  Why,  good 
gracious  me,  suicide's  a  crime  only  in  England.  Every- 
where else  it's  recognised  as  a  fact,  as  a  definite  logical 
thing." 

"Joe,  you  do  see  that  he  was  logical?"  Barbara  said,  im- 
pulsively. 

There  was  quite  a  distinct  pause  before  Amberley  an- 
swered. They  continued  to  walk  steadily  in  the  direction 
of  Barnet. 


326  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

"Not  very  reasonable,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly.  "I  sup- 
pose he  thought — put  an  end  to  it.  I  can  see  that  he  thought 
...  It  must  have  been  a  considered  plan,  and  must  have 
needed  nerve.  But  as  a  way  out  I  don't  care  for  it,  because 
he  didn't  exhaust  the  other  possibilities.  He  was  premature. 
Many  things  could  have  been  done,  better  things." 

"What  about  Mrs.  Velancourt?"  asked  Barbara. 

"Oh,  you're  prejudiced.  We  had  an  awful  fortnight  with 
her,  of  course — until  she  went  back  to  her  mother.  But  the 
poor  thing  was  hysterical,  blaming  herself,  blaming 
him.  .  .  ." 

"You  couldn't  call  that  logical !" 

"Do  you  want  to?  This  is  the  point:  Velancourt  was 
miserable.  We  know  why.  I  also  know  that  I  was  inhu- 
man to  him,  and  that  makes  me  feel  bitter,  because  he  de- 
ceived me  into  thinking  he'd  got  over  it." 

"He  particularly  said " 

"I  know.  He  probably  thought  Cissie  would  be  able  to 
marry  again,  more  suitably.  If  he  thought  of  her  at  all. 
Of  course,  she'll  do  that.  He'd  found  out  that  she  was 
killing  him — that's  a  way  of  speaking,  of  course — and  he 
was  frenzied  by  it.  While  he  was  at  a  cold  heat  he  was 
obsessed  by  the  idea  of  suicide.  That's  how  it  seems  to  me. 
There's  no  glory  in  it." 

"I  know  you  wouldn't  do  it.  You'd  find  a  better  way. 
But  I  think  he  chose  the  best  and  only  way.  That  was  his 
way,  and  in  so  far  as  it  solved  his  particular  difficulties  it's 
logically  the  best  way." 

"Barbara,  you're  a  rotten  logician !"  said  Amberley. 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  in  to  you  when  I  know  I'm  right," 
Barbara  persisted.  "I  do  see  this  one  thing  very  clearly, 
Joe.  I  see  that  you're  thinking  of  him  as  if  he  had  your 
nature.  He  hadn't.  He'd  got  another  kind  of  nature  alto- 
gether. You  couldn't  kill  yourself — you've  got  too  much 
.  .  .  well,  I  suppose  it's  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  I  couldn't, 
because  I'm  too  self-important.     But  he  did,  because  death 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  327 

was  a  necessity  to  him.  He  wanted  to  get  behind  life  alto- 
gether.    Now,  don't  say  I'm  stupid." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  give  in  to  me.  I  love  you  too  much 
— beg  pardon !  And  you're  not  at  all  stupid.  Perhaps  I 
am.    I  say  that  there  were  other  ways  for  him,  as  he  was." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Barbara.  "And  I  know  I'm 
right !" 

They  could  not  laugh,  because  Velancourt's  death,  only  a 
month  old,  had  made  too  great  an  impression  upon  them; 
but  the  deadlock  brought  them  nearer  to  one  another. 

"You're  going  to  tell  me  that  a  purely  ethical  problem — 
whether  a  man  should,  or  should  not,  take  his  own  life — 
must  be  argued  upon  the  merits  of  each  case?"  Amberley 
asked. 

"I  don't  care  tuppence  for  the  general  question.  I'm  only 
sure  about  this  one  case." 

"How  terrible  it  is  to  be  so  stubborn !"  he  protested. 
"Of  course,  I  could  go  on  arguing  with  you  all  the  way 
home.  But  that'll  only  prevent  your  joining  in  a  foursome 
another  Saturday." 

Barbara  did  not  say  anything,  and  a  long  silence  fell. 
They  walked  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  keeping  a  fair  pace, 
two  strong  figures  of  nearly  the  same  height.  Amberley 
was  very  little  taller  than  Barbara,  and  very  little  stronger. 
They  both  walked  very  erect,  and  they  both  looked  straight 
at  anything  they  wanted  to  see.  At  last,  after  the  pause 
had  become  uncomfortable,  Barbara  said : 

"Aren't  you  rather  obstinate  yourself,  Joe?" 


Ill 

Amberley  smiled  in  the  safe  darkness  at  her  studiously 
pacific  tone.  But  the  next  moment  he  felt  dreary  again. 
It  was  all  very  well  to  play  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened :  a  great  deal  had  happened.    They  knew  each  other 


328  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

very  well,  they  understood  each  other,  they  admired  each 
other.    Why  was  the  sequence  imperfect? 

"I'm  very  determined,"  he  said. 

"I  said,  obstinate,"  suggested  Barbara,  drily. 

"Well,  we  both  know  we're  right,  anyway,"  he  explained. 
"At  least,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  right.  I'm  too  philosophic 
for  that." 

"Oh,  horrible,  Joe !"  cried  Barbara.  "You're  very  obsti- 
nate indeed." 

She  came  nearer,  and  their  eyes  met.  They  could  not 
possibly  see  expressions  in  such  darkness,  but  the  fact  of 
the  exchanged  glance  was  of  importance,  as  both  recog- 
nised. In  that  instant  Barbara  heard  her  mother  say :  "Only 
because  you  recognise  a  stronger  will  than  your  own."  Her 
face  became  hot  at  the  memory.  It  was  not  memory :  it  was 
as  though  the  speech  had  actually  been  made. 

"But  I'm  rather  honest,"  he  ventured.  "Wouldn't  you 
say  so?" 

"I'm  certainly  not  going  to  discuss  your  nature,"  she  said, 
decidedly.  "But  bear  up,  little  man :  we'll  talk  about  .  .  ." 
Her  voice  faltered.  "We'll  talk  about  .  .  .  about  mine,  if 
you  like." 

"Nothing  better."  He  became  instantly  intent,  ears  and 
eyes  alert  for  what  was  to  follow. 

"Well,"  Barbara  began,  in  a  dry  unsteady  voice,  "I'm  a 
beast  of  a  girl,  really.    I'm  very  vain,  and  selfish " 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  we  eliminated  those  more 
obvious  things?"  Amberley  asked.  He  was  so  desperately 
anxious  to  cut  away  the  preliminaries  to  what  might  be  the 
happiness  of  his  life,  that  he  forgot  to  be  courteous. 

Barbara  walked  on  fast,  in  silence,  with  her  head  in  the 
air.  He  had  to  hurry  after  her,  rather  frightened,  but 
tremendously  elated,  with  great  pride  and  hope  in  his  heart. 
He  reached  her  side,  and  caught  her  arm  in  a  passionate 
grip. 

"Were  you  going  to  say  you'd  changed  your  mind?"  he 
said,  breathlessly. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  329 

"I  think  I  dislike  you  almost  more  than  ever,'"  she  said, 
in  a  quivering  voice. 

"Oh,  my  dear  ...  I  didn't  think  you  could  be  serious — 
not  so  banale!"  He  reproached  her.  "You  know  quite  well 
that  I  love  you ;  and  you  know  that  no  self-depreciation  is 
ever  really  honest.  Why  do  you  begin  such  a  business  when 
you  ought  to  be  most  scrupulous?    Barbara !" 

She  listened  to  what  he  said ;  and  dismissed  her  tears  of 
vexation. 

"Because,"  she  said,  honestly.  "I  see  I  was  stupid.  I 
suppose  there  was  a  base  instinct  at  work.  And  I  thought 
I  was  going  to  be  honest.  I  wanted  ...  I  want  to  say  to 
you,  Joe,  that  if  you  want  me  still " 

Amberley  stopped  before  her  and  caught  her  hands  so 
fiercely  that  he  hurt  her. 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  he  exclaimed. 

Barbara  was  trembling,  and  beginning  to  laugh  from 
nervousness. 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  she  said,  heroically.  "I  want 
to  marry  you." 

They  both  laughed  as  in  the  darkness  he  kissed  her  awk- 
wardly. 

"God  bless  South  Mimms!"  Amberley  cried.  Barbara, 
in  his  arms,  echoed  the  benediction.  When  he  released  her 
at  last,  they  stood,  rather  absurdly,  hand  in  hand. 

"I  meant  to  say  it  to-day,  Joe,"  Barbara  said.  "I  planned 
it.  .  .  .  As  if  I'd  been  a  horrible  vampire  girl!"  She 
pinched  his  hand  a  very  little,  determined  upon  dire  hon- 
esty.   Amberley  shook  his  head. 

"Very  irregular,"  he  said.  "You  ought  to  have  waited 
till  I  asked  you  again." 

His  impudence  took  Barbara's  breath  away.  She  turned 
upon  him  in  powerful  reproach. 

"Yes,  but  good  gracious !  you'd  never  have  dared  to  ask 
again !" 

Amberley  kissed  her  a  second  time. 


330  ON  THE  STAIRCASE 


IV 

They  fell  into  step  again;  but  they  walked  more  slowly 
than  before. 

"I  wanted  to  say  .  .  ."  Barbara  was  very  stumbling. 
"You  know  how  ashamed " 

"Stop !"  he  cried.    "That's  done  with." 

"You're  a  bully,  Joe !" 

"You  were  going  to  apologise  for  having  hurt  me  before. 
I  don't  want  to  be  reminded  of  it.    I'm  quite  content." 

"But  I  am  sorry."  Barbara  was  forced  into  the  position 
of  being  defiantly  apologetic. 

"I  have  one  thing  to  say  to  you,  Barbara  Gretton,"  Am- 
berley  said ;  but  he  took  her  arm,  and  she  could  see  that  he 
was  smiling  with  a  rather  nonsensical  air.  "And  that  is, 
that  I'm  not  a  fool.  I  knew  you  were  sorry — do  you  think 
I  don't  value  you  ?    Why,  my  dear,  I  love  you." 

"But  if  you  think  that  love  prevents  misunderstandings, 
Joe ;  and  angers,  and  torments — what  an  innocent  child  you 
are !"  Barbara  spoke  in  a  low,  agitated  voice.  She  felt 
terribly  exhausted  in  spite  of  her  happiness. 

They  had  reached  the  main  road  to  Barnet;  and  they 
stood  near  the  corner  of  the  road  by  which  they  had  come, 
waiting  to  be  overtaken  by  Susan  and  Ernest. 

"I  don't  say  love  does  anything.  I'm  talking  about  you 
and  me." 

"I  shall  be  horribly  angry  all  the  time." 

By  the  light  of  the  street  lamp,  Amberley  for  the  first 
time  since  they  had  left  the  inn  could  see  Barbara's  face. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  eyes  shining.  Her  lips 
were  compressed  as  he  remembered  them  to  have  been  on 
the  evening  of  their  quarrel.  His  first  impulse,  checked  only 
by  the  publicity  of  their  position,  was  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 
She  was  almost  crying;  and  it  was  horrible  not  to  be  able 
to  comfort  her.  It  was  horrible  also  to  see  her  so  moved, 
more  moved  than  he  had  guessed  from  her  unsteady  voice. 


ON  THE  STAIRCASE  331 

But  he  was  himself  moved  and  excited,  which  made  him 
talkative. 

"You  can  be  as  angry  as  you  like,"  he  said.  "So  long 
as  you're  honest.  That's  what's  the  crux.  Humbug's  the 
horror !"  He  laughed  a  little.  Then,  as  though  to  persuade 
her,  he  said  :    "It  is,  really !" 

Barbara  looked  at  him.  She  could  not  speak;  she  could 
only  nod. 

"We  won't  have  any  humbug,  will  we?"  Amberley  whis- 
pered. 

"We  shall  probably  have  an  awful  lot  of  nonsense !"  Bar- 
bara cried,  and  turned  away,  so  that  her  face  should  be  in 
the  shadow. 

"Well,  you  won't  mind  that,  will  you,  dear?  It  seems  as 
though  it  rather  sweetens  life."  Amberley  looked  wistfully 
at  her  averted  face.  Then  he  plunged.  "Barbara.  I'll 
admit  you  may  be  right  about  Velancourt  in  theory.  Per- 
haps I  don't  understand  his  point  of  view.  But  I  quite 
realise  your  right  to  another  opinion.  It's  not  that  I  want 
to  over-ride  you.  It's  simply  that  the  whole  thing's  un- 
thinkable to  me.  He  may  have  done  a  courageous  thing, 
after  all.  But  you  know  I  shall  never  be  able  to  forgive 
him.    She's  going  to  have  a  baby." 


THE   END. 


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